


Fighting for Air

by miikkaa_xx



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/miikkaa_xx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2015, under Stacker Pentecost's supervision, the Wei triplets join the Jaeger Ranger Academy. But Jaegers have only been piloted by two, and the triplets - streetfighters battling their own poverty - are desperate to prove themselves even when authority and technology fight them at every turn. Before they can save the world, the triplets have to save themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting for Air

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to my beta [Tess](http://trisunhorizon.tumblr.com/) for holding my hand and nitpicking my bullshit.
> 
> Also to the wonderful artist [Dalila](http://fadei.tumblr.com/) for claiming this fic and gracing me with her abilities.
> 
>  **warnings:** language, mild violence, backstory and headcanon everywhere, OCs.

\- 

-

It’s a matter of practicality, at first. Which it should be. It’s the end of the world, ladies and gentlemen – why shouldn’t Stacker Pentecost, now the head of a project that might just collapse on itself at any given moment, worry about practicality first? 

When the Hong Kong Shatterdome’s construction begins near the end of 2014, his officials start their search. They tell him coolly over the video feed from the United Nations Kaiju Response Summit in Berlin to ‘go find us some recruits, Marshall,’ and Stacker accepts. 

The Chinese government - like any other nation, he knows - is adept at letting loose a stream of propaganda that had been perfected decades before. The familiar ‘us against the world’ mentality echoes out from each news story and poster, Stacker thinks, as the screen on his helicopter shows a fuzzy outline of a team of Chinese men and women defeat a scaled down version of a kaiju. It’s tacky. It’s also 3am and Stacker should be sleeping instead of watching the video screen, wondering how the world is going to end today. 

Humans foretell many things, but Stacker has never believed in the occult. He’s not going to let sea monsters from Dante’s Hell itself destroy an earth on which he means to live a long, prosperous life, along with billions of others. Luna always told him he had a protective streak – especially when he’d come home from fistfights when he was younger. 

(But they insulted you and mom, presses ten-year-old Stacker, seated at the kitchen table with baggie of ice pressed against his cheek. 

They didn’t come after us, did they? They just want to see you fight and lose, Stack) 

At dawn, they land in Chengdu – a bustling city nestled near the western mountain ridge in the distance. There’s still dew on the flora when Stacker steps down from the helicopter to meet the government officials working there, then go to the assigned elementary school. 

The gym is cleared, except for mats laid out on the hardwood and long poles stacked along the walls. There is a table across from the mats, with seven seats. Stacker takes the middle, various government officials seating themselves to his left and right. They murmur quietly in Sichuanese to each other before the gym doors open and the first fifty children stream into the gym. 

(no, Stack, they’re teenagers now – fifteen, sixteen is plenty old for cadets. They’re older than what you’re seeing, trust) 

There is a translator to his side, but Stacker’s insomnia has helped him improve his language skills exponentially, so he tries – in his stilted, smeared accent – to communicate with them in the most basic terms of Mandarin he can manage. 

‘Hello, my name is Stacker Pentecost, and I work for the United Nations Kaiju Response Team’s military.’ Though Stacker has practiced, the speech still comes out slow, careful, but the translator by his side nods minutely in encouragement. ‘We need soldiers to fight the Kaiju, and I need to see how you work together. Thank you for your time.’ 

The teenagers – though standing in a cluster – have already migrated closer to certain others. Stacker scans the group once more and nods in approval – seeing various sets of twins and siblings within the group. Some hold each other’s hands, some with their shoulders pressed together, heads tilted to one another to murmur. Some of them might enlist to become engineers, some mechanics, but Stacker is here for pilots, and this is why he specifies blood relations. 

Here, the translator stands to begin his part of the script. Stacker seats himself, an attendance and note-taking sheet on a clipboard placed before him. The pen is cool between his fingers as he tries to read the Chinese characters, before flicking his gaze on the English phonics written underneath that the government has provided him. 

The first pair stand next to each other and are instructed to do a basic exercise of tossing a ball to one another twelve times. Stacker notes how the one on the right quickly adapts to her partner, shifting one step left. Then one of the pair is blindfolded, and they toss the ball ten more times. The throws are surprisingly steady. The blindfold is switched and there are five successful catches from the other. Stacker takes note of quickness, reflexes, adaptability, and any verbal or visual cues they might have created in such a short time. 

There will be a written exam in the afternoon as a quick, time-efficient way to evaluate relative intelligence, as well as a psychological evaluation via another multiple-choice test. It’s too generic for Stacker’s taste, but they don’t have time to evaluate individuals. China has already begun to mass-produce Horizon Brave in their factories and Stacker needs pilots in only a few months. His recruitment and training schedule is strained as it is. 

The first pair are sisters four years apart and Stacker already thinks they’ve set the bar in such a short period with their performance. Still, he watches intently as the next pair is called out by the translator. This time a pair of female twins stand before Stacker, their hair in matching bobcuts, and the three ball passing exercises are carried out in much the same manner. 

By the time lunch rolls around, there are fewer than a quarter of pairs left. Stacker works through to the afternoon, his hand cramping, though the officials shift restlessly in their seats – eager for a break and lunch. Even the translator snaps his eyes to the clock often enough, counting down the pairs under his breath. 

But Stacker pays special attention to the last few. The ones who have been waiting since dawn, the ones who are hungry and tired and on edge. He watches them and takes care to burn their names in his mind when they succeed at the exercise. 

Finally, Stacker has a quiet lunch with the officials, trying to eavesdrop on their conversations though his Mandarin is barely passable and their Chengdu dialect changes many things. The afternoon tests are carried in the gym. Some unknown force has cleared the mats and set up desks and chairs, and Stacker becomes some unofficial invigilator, seated at his desk as he watches them. He doesn’t care if they cheat – only if they don’t get caught because cooperation is infinitely more important than anything the test says. Stacker will teach them what they need to know later. 

The same process repeats for two more days, and the test results come in on the fourth day Stacker is in the city. He and three others sort through the results and Stacker’s notes, singling out pairs that have made the cut for now. Stacker wonders if he’ll need to return to this city, and hopes not. 

The group – all three days’ worth – return and Stacker calls out their names, tasting them in his mouth, and when he gets to the end of the list, the rest are thanked for their effort and time and dismissed. If they wish to return, they are to apply formally through the Chinese military. Stacker needs emergency recruits _now_. 

The remaining recruits stand at attention, watching him. Stacker sucks in a breath, hands clasped behind his back. His tongue is heavy in his mouth when he speaks. It forms the appropriate sounds, all the noises necessary to get these children – no, they’re teenagers, almost adults now – onto trains to be shipped off to the Shatterdome being built at Hong Kong. 

(be honest with yourself, Stack, he hears Luna say – her voice lilting and rough. Your mouth feels fuzzy not because you don’t know this language. ’Cause you do, bro. Nah, you’re just heavy with guilt.) 

Stacker finds his slumped shoulders fit better in the helicopter when they’re off to the next city. They’re on a strict schedule after all. 

\- 

He alternates between the big, bustling metropolises and the secondary cities when he begins his tour through the country. Each place he visits is still a hub of civilization and population even as stock markets crash and poverty begins its final, devastating sweep through the neighborhoods packed together full of businesses and entire lives that Stacker intends on saving from this mess. 

Stacker flies over the mountains in Sichuan to drop in both Chengdu and Chongqing nestled in a valley to taste apricots. He passes up north to Gansu province and recruits pairs of desert siblings from Lanzhou, then heads downwards to the mirror-still lake by Wuhan, before travelling west to Changsha, and he double backs where the trees rise high and green around Nanchang and Fuzhou. 

Every week, he manages to find the internet service necessary to video call his superiors, and every time they tell him he’s wasting his time by going through the inner land cities. They’re not in immediate risk, they won’t send in their best recruits. He should be focusing on the ports if he wants to get anywhere, so Stacker eventually goes to Guangzhou and Shanghai to appease them before doubling back to Hong Kong, finally ending his tour through China. 

The government officials he meets in his travels reassure him that they’ve scouted out schools and orphanages, trawled through the streets and even pulled out recruits of necessary age from nearby military bases. They don’t ever critique his method of finding them – though tossing balls around and taking unnecessary tests are the definition of unconventional. 

Every day, Stacker spends his time amassing brothers and sisters and twins and orphans bonded together too tightly to be called anything but siblings. His last stop lands him at a school that is half the city away from the Shatterdome, but Stacker can see the blooming petals of the dome opening up for construction and repairs in the horizon. Next to it is an entire industrial complex dedicated to spitting out Horizon Brave parts to be assembled down the line inside the Shatterdome’s main garage. It has been months since Stacker’s been inside of it, but the progress is clear – it is a grey and white building made more for practicality than beauty, but he sees the echo of a lotus flower when the Dome opens wide and he thinks humanity’s always liked a little symbolism. 

After this, Stacker makes plans to detour his aircraft to take him to Japan. Months without little Mako by his side makes him feel itchy and paranoid. Though he knows quite well that the orphanage treats her well – he doesn’t pay them what he does so they won’t – and her schoolwork is important, Stacker finds himself concerned in a flustered way he doesn’t know how to control. Wonders whether she has eaten properly, what sort of curriculum they’ve given her, whether he can sit with her listen to her voice and grieve with her all the things she is grieving, but this time in her own tongue. 

He sits high up in the air unable to sleep, surrounded in guides to Japanese and Mandarin and Korean and Vietnamese and Hindi and Farsi, tries to familiarize himself as much as he can to the soft sounds and the way the mouth doesn’t move half as much as it does with English and German. Now that Hong Kong looms to end, he finds himself opening up Japanese more often, trying to bring back Mako’s soft voice and how she had said his name, said hello, said are you a monster too? 

A Jaeger is meant to cause fear, put the name of humanity’s power into a Kaiju’s skull, but still, Stacker presses his mouth together and wonders what it’s like to speak with someone too old for their body, until he realizes he is the same. 

He finds himself distracted when he sits at the table in the empty gymnasium, staring at the dawn light trickling through the high windows as it slip-slides over the waxed hardwood floors. Only when the translator next to him seats himself, saying in English, ‘we not only found a great many siblings and twins, but also a set of triplets. They’ll be coming in on the third day. The Wei children – I heard they signed up by their own choice too.’ 

Stacker thanks him for the information and then quickly flips through the attendance list when he lands on three rows crushed together on the paper: Wei Cheung, Wei Hu, Wei Jin. 

It’s not favouritism but practicality when he immediately scribbles a star next to their names. Triplets, he thinks. Well – if one dies in the cockpit, the other can take his place, can’t he? 

(like Tamsin? You’re cold, brother.) 

Stacker clears his mind, takes a breath, and stands up with his speech. 

\- 

The Hong Kong kids rank the same way any other group Stacker has evaluated, which means that there are a number of successes, a number to consider once more, and the rest. It is past the appointed lunch time for the third day. The evaluations always go over time, and Stacker has advised the officials to bring snacks, if they so wish. They never do – it’s a matter of discipline and pride – if the Englishman doesn’t need any, why do they? 

Finally, Stacker reaches the page where the triplets have been listed and peers through the sparse cluster of teenagers at the side. He spots the triplets without trouble. ‘I would like them to go last,’ decides Stacker, and the translator nods, skipping over them to the next pair. 

Half an hour later, it’s just the Wei triplets and Stacker now, the officials shifting in their seats, eager to be away. Stacker considers sending them away – doing this last session one-on-one without any distractions, but protocol holds. 

‘First, Wei Cheung and Wei Hu, please pass the ball to one another twelve times,’ says the translator in rapid-fire Cantonese. Stacker has heard the phrase so many times in so many ways that he follows along without missing a beat. What he doesn’t expect is for the triplets to talk back. 

‘We would like to do the evaluation with all three of us, please.’ Stacker wishes he knew which one spoke. There is command in his voice and he can appreciate that. 

The translator looks over at Pentecost, but Pentecost holds fast. A Jaeger is piloted by two, not three. He shakes his head, and the translator says, ‘only two at a time. You will be evaluated with both brothers, of course. But just by pairs.’ 

One brother looks to the other, and they glance back. A conversation exchanged. Stacker sees that one is taller than the others, and another has a sharper jawline. If only he could place a name to a face. 

‘You can,’ starts Stacker in his smeared version of Mandarin, hoping they’ll understand, ‘do all three together afterwards. It will be a fourth exercise.’ 

The triplets consider, confer, and acquiesce. Cheung and Hu step together – not looking tired at all from hours of standing and watching. Already, they have stamina that Stacker notes. He cannot find which one is Cheung and which Hu until they switch off, and perhaps he doesn’t need to because they perform alarmingly well. There’s something like experience sliding between them. One of them shifts his foot and the other answers with a side-step. One tosses the ball across the gym with a different flick of the wrist and the brother is already there, picking up on it. They scream Drift compatibility. 

Hu switches out with Jin – a softer-faced version of his brother Cheung, and they behave much the same. Stacker takes very short notes as Hu and Jin toss it to each other afterwards. When the blindfolds are taken out, there are fewer tricks and more practicality. Still, Hu is always moving when Cheung overcorrects and throws too far or throws too short. Hu’s throws are standard by every means, and he gives an easy time to his partners, while Jin tries to stay steady and stumbles a little this way and that, but his brothers are always there on their own end. 

Stacker only hopes they pass the afternoon written tests, or else he would be pressed to pull a few strings. The triplets are sixteen and deadly good at reading each other’s physicality. It makes Stacker wonder if it’s just the triplet bond or if there is something else at work. 

Finally – it is Hu that spoke first, recognizes Stacker, and he speaks once more with his oddly-lilting Cantonese, ‘now all three of us together, like you said, right?’ 

‘Would you like two blindfolds for the blindfold test?’ asks the translator to Stacker. He decides to ask the triplets. 

Again, it’s Hu who speaks for them: ‘we work best together. Two blindfolds will be perfect.’ 

They stand in a triangle and pass the ball around without any problems, though they’re spread across the entirety of the gym. Finally, the blindfolds are offered and Hu and Jin put them on – angling their bodies so they face the middle of the gym where Cheung stands. 

‘At the same time?’ calls out Hu. 

‘The count of three,’ says Cheung. 

‘Three,’ they both reply, grinning, and rear their arms back to toss the ball in the direction they imagine Cheung is in. 

Miraculously, Cheung catches both of balls three times out of twelve, and at least one ball for the rest. 

Stacker wonders what they’re playing at – the three of them together. Sticking together, playing each card together – tight as any set of twins are. They’re something off about them, but the world is ending and he must think of practicality first and feelings later. 

‘Thank you for your time, please come back for the written portion in the afternoon, and the day after tomorrow for results,’ says the translator, dismissing them. The triplets cock their heads, eyeing Stacker, before they murmur something to each other and walk out of the gymnasium entirely. 

The officials stand up, stretching their legs, their mouths bursting with their own evaluations of the recruits, but Stacker does not join them in their conversation, merely hangs back in silence as he flips through the pages of his clipboard, following them to wherever they wish to go for lunch. 

The triplets remind him a little of Mako – serious expressions, distrustful gazes, too aged for their bodies. Old souls. Stacker realizes, quietly, that he is eager to see them again, just to test their mettle. 

\- 

Day four is result reviewing day. Stacker and a handful of others work together to sort through the various tests – matching up Stacker’s notes with their respective scores and piling them into three things: Ranger recruits, possible Ranger recruits, and the rest. 

The possible Ranger recruits are a pile to revisit should the current Rangers do not succeed by the third month of their training. They’re an emergency batch for Stacker and the United Nations to call upon should the end of the world draw ever closer. 

The rest, Stacker considers, should also be sorted into engineering and mechanical things if they have enough motivation to show up to the testing, but his superiors dismiss the idea. ‘You’re out there to find pilots, not mechanics.’ 

The Wei triplets immediately hit the Ranger recruits pile, along with many others, and once the results are gathered and listed, Stacker spends a night in a hotel in Mong Kok, a Japanese study guide propped in his lap, his voice echoing quietly in the empty room. 

\- 

‘If we call your names, you are to stay in the gymnasium for further debriefing. If you do not hear your name, you have been dismissed. We appreciate your efforts and time in the last few days. Now…’ 

Stacker contemplates the ridges in his hands, the creases of his palm, and admires that he is still steady despite how awful he feels today. There are off-days with radiation, he remembers Tamsin saying when she sat in the hospital ward, her hair gone and her wrists frail in the distilled sunlight shining past her windows. 

He closes his eyes, opens them when the triplets are called in quick succession. 

The debriefing session is a quick rundown of what should be expected (in-class lessons as well as hands-on training), where they will be living (the students’ responsibility, but there is cheap housing near Yau Ma Tei if they need help to move somewhere), and whether they wish to drop out or not (they only get one chance to do it without penalty – today, right now). 

The recruits are dismissed and asked to report at the Shatterdome the following day at seven in the morning. Stacker requests the translator to hold back the triplets afterwards for a brief chat. They’re the first triplets in the program, but something about them makes Stacker’s mouth twitch in uncertainty and he can’t put his finger on it. 

The triplets hang around, dressed in cargo pants and tanktops, the tall one has a red baseball cap over his shaved skull. They’re not dirty, but Stacker can’t call them clean either. There’s a pervasive scent of poverty that reeks through the pan pacific coastlines that Stacker has become familiar with, and it is present around them as well – circling over their ankles and wrists like manacles to hold them down. 

He beckons them forward, watches them exchange a word or two, and step forward into his space. Their expressions are wary but curious. Stacker knows that look, has seen it one too many times over Mako’s petite face. He does not smile, nor appear inviting, merely clasps his hands in front of him and nods. ‘Congratulations.’ 

Sharp jaw - Hu, his name is Hu - smiles at Stacker’s Mandarin. ‘Thank you for picking us.’ His expression isn’t deferential in the slightest like his voice. The sharp eyes match the sharp jaw, and Stacker thinks they’ve seen too much to care about him and his authority. 

‘You’re the only set of triplets we’ve found,’ continues Stacker, ‘but you must know that only two of you will pilot a Jaeger, should the chance arise.’ 

‘And what will the third pilot be?’ asks baseball cap. Stacker wants to say Jin, but he’s not sure. The boy’s accent is more evident that Hu - familiar but disconcerting. It is clear they’re not local Hong Kong kids. 

‘Back-up. Should one of you experience neural overload, go into a coma, get brain damage or physical damage, are unable to pilot the jaeger, the third shall go in instead, like a substitute.’ 

‘That’s not going to happen,’ says the third sharply – he would be Cheung, and he speaks rapid-fire Cantonese as a challenge. ‘All three of us will pilot.’ 

Stacker shakes his head. ‘That’s not possible.’ It’s not even a matter of adhering to protocol anymore. Dr. Caitlin Lightcap designed a neural bridge connection between two brains, not three nor just one. While Stacker is adamant about not losing the triplets at this point, he refuses to tempt them into a program that will tear them apart without their express knowledge. He knows the bond of siblings, he knows the bond of Rangers. 

‘Then make it possible. If anything, shouldn’t it be easier?’ belts out Jin with his baseball cap, his Cantonese fast and smeared, thankfully Stacker has been studying - it’s best to know the language of one’s crews and Rangers. Before he can reply, he sees Cheung shoot Jin a sharp look, and Jin clicks his mouth shut. 

As if to appease, Hu smiles wider. ‘You’re warning us.’ 

‘I expect to see you tomorrow at seven on the dot,’ says Stacker roughly, the dismission in his tone loud and clear. 

The triplets exchange glances, murmur quietly in a dialect that is not from Hong Kong at all, before looking up at him, their faces clear and determined. ‘Yes, sir,’ they echo promptly and scatter away, nudging against each other, the slight bones of their elbows and wrists knocking against one another as they leave the gymnasium altogether. 

Stacker goes back to his hotel and flips through his language guide for clues on accents but gets nowhere. He switches to Japanese until he falls asleep fitfully at four in the morning, and then wakes up to tour the Shatterdome in the early dawn before stepping into a video conference with his UN bosses. 

‘We’re sending you down into Japan and Korea now for a five week tour. Be ready.’ 

Stacker thinks of Mako first and Jaegers second and decides to ask her, in not-broken-anymore Japanese, whether she would like to come with him. The next morning, he boards the helicopter, and does not return to Hong Kong for a year. 

\- 

The first day: 

Then Jaeger academy has commandeered an elementary school a few blocks away from the Shatterdome. It’s old, underfunded, and falling apart. The brickwork is scratched up and the chain-link fences threaten to fall over, but the hallways and classrooms have been swept clean and the remnants of any posters of basic characters or numbers have been taken down. 

At seven in the morning, the ocean’s fog has just rolled in, leaving the backdrop grey and eerie, as the corners of the school fade away. The crunch of the courtyard gravel sounds almost ominous under Cheung’s sneakers as he leads the way inside, feeling the damp air slick against his cheeks. The front doors open easily and there are signs taped up to the walls in the corridor like an attendance list. Quickly, they find their names and go to their assigned classroom. 

Two left turns later and they reach a door slightly ajar, muffled voices filtering outwards, when they file in. There’s about fifty other kids inside, voices low. Girls and boys covered in the grime of poverty from their out-of-date clothing, their thin wrists and winglike collarbones. Cheung feels his pant legs ride up his ankles and tightens his mouth. He had washed them yesterday and they’ve shrunk. Again. 

‘Let’s sit,’ murmurs Hu, and both him and Jin flank their older brother as they slide into too-small desks in waiting. Cheung catches accents he doesn’t recognize, dialects that slur the words, and realizes this isn’t just Hong Kong anymore, but the whole of the country. It makes him want to press Hu and Jin tighter to him, revel in their familiarity. 

At ten minutes past seven in the morning, a middle-aged Chinese man in a mechanic’s overalls and cap strides in, gloves slick with grease hanging from one of his hands as the other holds up the attendance sheet. ‘Tell me if you’re here. Any kids that aren’t have decided to drop out.’ 

Jin calls for all three of them, kicking his feet underneath the desk as if the sun hasn’t just risen, and Hu is already slumped over, blinking owlishly to keep his tiredness at bay. The instructor checks off the names steadily before folding up the piece of paper and sliding it in his back pocket of the overalls. 

‘You’re here as China’s second class of Ranger recruits. The first class is being outfitted for Horizon Brave models that are currently being assembled in the Shatterdome as of this year. Current technology places the next available model of Jaeger to be developed by the end of next year. You will need to learn three things before you are selected from your class to pilot one of these – one: physical abilities; two: how to pilot a Jaeger; and three: how to represent China.’ 

The man shifts his weight from one boot to the other, eyeing them. ‘Being a Ranger is both the easiest and hardest job in the world. I will accept drop-outs now.’ No one moves. In fact, Cheung is hard pressed to say if anyone breathes. The man’s face softens. ‘I don’t know why you’ve chosen this – ’ 

Except Cheung knows when he glances to Jin and Hu to either side of him. He’s here because the alternative is broken bones and bloodied faces and empty stomachs; the alternative is dying, and the military won’t look at underage, underfed street kids. This is their one chance, this is the only chance, and Cheung means to take it, despite the competition scattered throughout this school. 

‘ – not all of you will be able to become pilots. Some may choose to focus on J-tech or engineering, and some of you will become trainers or instructors for the next class, should we need another one. But– some of you,’ the instructor pauses, ‘some of you will save the world.’ 

But first, Cheung adds silently, he means to save themselves. 

They receive schedules, textbooks, and a map before cycling through their three morning classes – focusing on the different parts of a Jaeger, how to control it, and the physical and technological similarities and differences between human and Jaeger anatomy. 

The lunch break is short, and Hu whines for a nap, leaning against Jin who talks excitedly. ‘This is way more interesting than real school. Did you _see_ that diagram? The hydraulics on the arm and the interconnected joints for the fingers.’ Jin levels Cheung with a look, his gaze serious: ‘It’s anime come to life.’ 

‘Do you even know what hydraulics mean?’ snaps Hu, and Cheung slings his arm over his brother’s shoulders, letting Hu lean on his big brother’s shoulders. They don’t have food to eat, so they sit around, the humid air slinking between their shirts and pants as the fog dissipates and sunshine beats down from the sky. When Cheung squints in the distance, the blooming petals of the Hong Kong Shatterdome are on display against the pumping dark smoke of the Jaeger factory behind it. 

When they come back to the classroom, the class is missing seven kids already. 

‘Drop-outs,’ sneers Jin. 

Beaten competition, thinks Cheung, and settles back in his seat for the next four classes - this time about political boundaries, ramifications, and the Jaeger specifications of each different country and how to adapt to their strengths and weaknesses. The day is too long - the sun creeping ever so slowly before it hits the ocean, draping the world in orange and gold. 

It makes the bags under Hu’s eyes more pronounced and the bruise on Jin’s cheek glows sickly yellow under the light. Cheung shoves at them to go home once the last class finishes and the rest of the students trickle outside. 

‘This is gonna be great,’ says Jin, enthused and honest. ‘Do you think they’d let us build a Jaeger? A specialized one?’ 

‘Funding,’ says Hu and waves the political economics textbook near his face. ‘Need so much funding.’ 

Cheung elbows Hu and grins. ‘They’re gonna have to if it’s for us. There’s three of us now.’ 

\- 

The hands-on training begins in the gym of the elementary school. The gym itself is like any other with it’s hardwood, waxed floors, painted lines, and bare walls with benches lining along them. The class is instructed to drag out the mats from the backroom into the middle, spreading them out for their first physical lesson. 

‘First, we’ll evaluate,’ says Huang, their instructor. He doesn’t lose the grey overalls or work gloves, always appearing as if he’ll leave the class at a moment’s notice to continue engineering Jaeger parts. It leaves an air of ‘substitute’ around him, a tension around the class as if they’re waiting for the real instructor they’ll receive soon enough. 

Hu says ‘it’s because of budget cuts’ as if it is the answer to everything, and Cheung privately agrees. China has relegated too much funding to Horizon Brave’s mass-production factory and further training of the first class, and not enough on the second generation of pilots. It means it will be harder for them to stick out and prove themselves. It’s a challenge that Cheung doesn’t want to accept, but he shoulders it anyway with a cocked head and straight spine. 

Their class has been whittled down to thirty six by the time the second week rolls around. Huang simply shrugs as he takes attendance, crossing their names out permanently from the roster as if they had never been there in the first place. The only thing that seems to irritate him are the lost textbooks he won’t be able to get back from the missing students. ‘Budget cuts’ indeed. 

Once the gym is finally set up, Huang begins a new set of instructions: ‘as of this year, recruits will fight each other as a test of whether they’re drift compatible or not. Those who fight the best with each other will be paired up – though most of you will be associated with a close friend or blood relation, but strangers connecting is also bound to happen. Everyone will follow my stance and learn basic moves. Your fights will begin next month.’ 

Huang emphasizes restraint overall. He crouches in his heavy boots and grey overalls, holding his arms in front of him, palms facing outward, feet staggered and says, ‘one of you, run at me.’ 

Cheung thinks about standing out from the crowd, about leaving an impression, about showing who deserves to be signed up first. He takes a step towards Huang, then another, then lunges - experience propelling him forward through the air to duck under Huang’s hands and snap at his legs, unbalancing the man. 

Jin whistles, but his enthusiasm is cut short when Huang slams a palm into Cheung’s shoulder and drops him into the mat almost immediately. He straightens, dispassionately eyeing the teenager below him. ‘I said to run at me, not to kill me.’ 

Cheung sucks in a breath, trying to figure out if the pain is from a cracked collarbone or dislocated shoulder. The mat smells like sweat, dust, and defeat. He grits his teeth and stands, but Huang is already looking away, already gesturing towards another student. 

Hu’s arm slips around his waist, his warmth a comfort. ‘Be careful, we have three matches this week.’ 

‘I know,’ he says. ‘I know.’ 

Hu eyes him and Jin steps up this time when Huang asks for a volunteer. He goes easily, gently, as if he doesn’t have experience that surmounts everyone here in this room, but Cheung swallows his bitterness and keeps up with the class. 

\- 

Hannibal likes for them to fight either at the beginning of the month, the middle, or the end. He says it’s about paycheck distribution. ‘Give a gamblin’ man some extra cash, and he’s going to spend it that night, guaranteed.’ Only Hu seems to catch onto the man’s distinct version of Chinglish every time they need to talk to him. 

Midterms is during the third week of the month, squashed between six fights - three in the middle, three at the end. It’s October, the humidity wavering between obnoxiously hot and pleasantly warm. The rains have just finished up, but the pavement still feels slick under Cheung’s feet as they cross from the apartment complexes to the nightlife scene. 

The graffiti here is bright and splattered haphazardly across brick and fence, trash lined up against the walls of the building or caught between the cracks of the sidewalk. It’s getting late, the sun a blurred line across the horizon in the west, and the shadows creep up the pavement, chasing down the brothers as they walk fast down the streets. 

They break out from the more dimmed streets into a bustling alleyway shoved between two streets, lights strung all along, food-carts parked at the intersections, loud mothers and their louder children, the hurried pace of those grabbing a dinner before heading home, the clatter-snap-hiss of food and bicycles and shoes echoing through the air. 

They cross three intersections before ducking into a small door nestled between a broken down automobile and a small balcony where the cooks from the restaurant upstairs are having a smoke during their break. One of them waves down and Hu waves back, keeping to the side to avoid the falling ash. 

The door is wooden and also graffitied when they duck through, entering a short staircase that leads to a basement. The air here is pungent with alcohol and smoke slinking around the grimy roof. When Cheung takes a breath, he recognizes a mix of sheesha and opium and weed. They get to the end of the staircase and push open another door, which opens up to a large square space, a din of noise slamming hard into Cheung’s ears. 

In the middle is a raised platform strung around with barbed wire and two half-naked men circling each other. They’re unmarked and unbruised for now, the cheers from the crowd around them deep and rumbling as they wait for the fight to start. 

Outside of the ring is the usual set up of tables and stools, mostly men tossing back drinks and hollering loudly. There’s a dart board in the corner which has been wrecked, and a dealer with cards in another corner. The bar has bottles stacked upwards, either half-full or empty, it’s hard to tell in the gloom, and bowls of snacks lined up along the back shelf. The place is packed and hot and sweaty, the clamouring tide of voices rising higher and higher until it breaks when one of the fighters cracks their knuckles against the other’s cheekbone. 

The room pauses, takes a deep breath in and expands outwards in a deafening, drunken roar. As a spectator, Cheung feels like he’s about to be swept away. The ring is the safe place, the haven for this underground, sweaty mess. He keeps moving forward, brothers flanking him. The crush of bodies makes it hard for Cheung to tell where the back entrance is until Jin’s hand is curled around his wrist now, leading him past the shuddering crowd to the second wooden door beside the bar. 

It leads to a damp, cool storeroom that’s been emptied out. There’s a screen set up in the middle - a cheap knockoff from the silken imports east of here. On one side is a bench and hooks lining the walls, the other side a table where Hannibal and four of his cronies sit. Cheung bows, deliberately shallow, and lets Hu step up to do the talking while Jin swings his bag to the bench and starts unpacking the bandages. 

‘Mr. Hannibal,’ says Hu in English with too much sibilance. Hannibal doesn’t care - only grins - as he stands up, opening his arms wide with affection. 

‘My best, these are my best,’ he says in slurred Mandarin. Immediately, Cheung strings the bandages tight around his knuckles and steps past the screen to evaluate who Hannibal is talking to. There are two bodyguards that he recognizes as Hannibal’s crew - a bald woman with bright lipstick and a white man with a facial scar. The other two are Chinese, dressed plainly in t-shirts and jeans, their expressions evaluating as they switch between the appearance of Hu and Hannibal and now Cheung. 

‘They came from Shanghai - they’ve been fighting for almost three years now,’ continues Hannibal enthusiastically. ‘Very good. They bring in tons of money.’ 

Cheung shivers, knowledge dawning on him quietly. Either they’re being sold off to new masters, or their master is trying to loosen his own leash. Hannibal is too Western to operate on this side of the world, Hu had said once, there might be a turf war. With the Kaiju attacks creating new levels of poverty and desperation, Hannibal will want to expand his business past petty drugs and underground fight rings, but he’ll be pressed by the real gangsters. 

This is where Liu comes in, as Cheung will later learn. Of the two in the room, he is the younger Chinese man whose eyes are too sharp for Cheung to duck away from. He inclines his head thoughtfully before looking at Hannibal, talking in deliberately slow Mandarin: ‘we will see after tonight’s fight whether we wish to make a deal with you.’ 

Hannibal’s gaze rests sharply on Hu and Cheung, his smile more feral now as his teeth glint in the dim light of the room. Just then, the thundering roar of the crowd shakes the walls, dust sifting downwards from the ceiling, as the first fight is signaled to an end. 

Jin steps out from behind the screen, his knuckles wrapped, and Cheung tosses the bandage roll to Hu, who hurriedly begins to unravel it for his own hands. Liu and his bodyguard nod once towards Hannibal before turning to face the triplets, eyes skittering from face to torso to feet and back up again. 

‘Shanghai?’ Liu remarks, switching to Hong Kong’s Cantonese in a beat. ‘You’re a long way from home.’ 

There’s a pause where Cheung’s chest tightens with emotions he’d rather leave unnamed, before he gives a tight, polite smile and jerks his chin towards Hu, who opens the door for Liu and his bodyguard, letting the noise of the outside filter through. 

Liu nods, and ducks past the entrance, his back disappearing within the sway of bodies. Behind them, Hannibal is starting his spiel - ‘ - brought a fighter from Guangzhou, another from Shanghai, might have knives. Be careful, and win.’ 

Hu throws an ‘of course’ behind him as Cheung hustles his brothers through the crowd, letting the sweat, dust, and grime part ways so they can step into the ring. The ring is simply a glorified dais, raised a meter above the floor and speckled with scratches and drying blood. The previous fight had gotten messy. 

Over the sea of eager, drunk, addicted faces, Cheung makes out Liu and his flanking bodyguards at the back. Liu can’t be many years older than Cheung, yet he already commands muscle and puts Hannibal on edge. Fine. If Liu wanted to see what Cheung is made of - so far from home - he would show the man. 

‘Jin,’ he calls out, ‘remember the pterion.’ 

Jin nods, two steps in front and to the left of his brother. ‘Where three fissures of the skull meet on the side above the ear.’ The door on the other side of the room opens and two bulked up fighters step out, their expressions serious and hair cropped short. 

Hu is rolling his ankles on Cheung’s other side, watching and waiting for the other fighters to get up on the dais when he says, ‘and if you hit it hard enough, it ruptures the middle meningeal artery.’ 

‘Which causes a subdural hematoma,’ finishes Cheung once their opponents get in formation before him and his brothers. The crowd erupts in a tidal wave of a roar. ‘Let’s go!’ 

\- 

Human anatomy comes the easiest to them, probably due to the very practical uses that Cheung is constantly trying to apply to every fight. When he breaks a bone, tears a muscle, lands a good punch, his brain is already there with technical names and causes and consequences cemented deep within his psyche. 

Predictably, Jin likes mechanics best. He says it reminds him of the old anime he keeps around on USB sticks for them to watch late on Sunday nights, nursing a dish of cucumber and garlic between them while the humidity of Hong Kong sticks to the back of their necks. 

Hu is still finding his niche in their schoolwork, and Cheung lets him take his time. As long as they’re all passing the exams, showing Huang that they’re pilot material, that they’re the exception to the rule, they will survive against every odd thrown at them. 

For fighting, Cheung has eased up on the bloodlust but Huang doesn’t let him fight with his peers, only assigning him to Hu or Jin or Huang himself. Yet slowly, quietly, Cheung begins to notice that Huang’s flat voice and stern hands has him taming his own body, keeping his instincts controlled. In a way, Cheung feels as if he is being trained - but he reminds himself: _this is for you, this is for Hu and Jin, keep yourself together_. 

In turn, Cheung can feel himself and his brothers defer to Huang in a way that he is unfamiliar with. Though Hannibal also makes them bow to stroke his ego, it is meaningless to Cheung. Simply a gesture for the white man. When he catches himself stepping aside immediately when Huang walks past him, it is a little surprise to his system. 

(Art by [Dalila](http://fadei.tumblr.com/))

‘He’s a really good teacher though,’ says Hu one night. ‘When he’s not kicking our asses or telling us that being a pilot is way fucking easier than a mechanic or engineer.’ 

‘Yeah, I don’t know how true that statement is,’ says Jin, ‘but I like him. A lot.’ 

‘You like everyone,’ snorts Hu, and Jin throws a pillow at him - ‘do not!’ - before Cheung is between them, wrestling Jin down gently (careful of those bruises down his side from last weekend’s fight) and laughing. 

‘He’s good,’ agrees Cheung, and his brothers look at him for a long, long moment. 

‘Are you feeling okay?’ pipes up Jin from underneath. ‘You never like anyone.’ 

‘Shut up, brat,’ replies the other, rolling Jin over to get him into a headlock. 

‘What about,’ starts Hu, hesitant. ‘What about… Liu?’ 

Liu - who came to almost all their matches these past few months and departed soon after. Cheung knew that Hannibal and Liu were negotiating something, but he didn’t know how much him and his brothers were involved. The uncertainty and the ambiguity made his stomach twist - he didn’t trust Liu for shit. Liu was young-looking, a little too arrogant with his straight back and bodyguards and disarming smile. 

‘If he wants something,’ says Cheung slowly, ‘he’ll have to come to us first.’ 

‘But what would he want?’ remarks Jin, prying himself away from Cheung’s arms. ‘It’s obvious he’s the better gangster, or else Hannibal wouldn’t be dealing with him.’ 

‘White gangsters are predictable, but Chinese gangsters are a whole other story,’ replies Hu sagely, except his mouth is upturned into a sly smile and Jin rolls his eyes, giving up to lie down on the cot, pinning Hu’s legs in silent retaliation. 

‘It’s true though,’ agrees Cheung with a sigh. ‘Liu has hometurf advantage. Keep on your toes in case he approaches one of you.’ 

\- 

The first semester of six months ends, the second begins. Their classes continue in the same vein - with mechanics, politics, and physical fitness taking the forefront. Cheung’s class haven’t dwindled since the first month, so he grudgingly forms respect for them and their stubbornness which matches his own as he listens to Huang break down the specifications of the cooler systems in the Jaeger surrounding the nuclear core. 

When they go to the next underground fight on Saturday, Cheung is still reciting mechanics of operating the arm of a Jaeger with his brothers as they bandage their fists in the backroom. The door opens and it isn’t Hannibal that steps in. 

‘Hu, Jin,’ calls Cheung quickly. They flank him, the heat of their arms next to Cheung easing him, as they bow to Liu’s smiling, pleasant face. His hair has grown longer since the last time Cheung saw him, making him more boyish and unassuming. It makes Cheung’s skin prickle. 

‘Hello,’ greets Liu. ‘Today, you’ll be fighting three men, all from Hong Kong’s own underbelly.’ 

‘I’m sorry, but where’s Hannibal?’ interjects Hu. 

Liu props both hands on his hips. ‘He won’t be able to come today. We are finalizing negotiations right now with him.’ 

Cheung _knows_ he shouldn’t ask questions, _knows_ he shouldn’t pry - but this brothers are at stake and this Chinese gangster was an unknown variable. ‘It’s not much a negotiation if you’re here and Hannibal is somewhere else.’ 

The backtalk makes Liu’s mouth twist, his eyes narrowing. ‘True. By _we_ , I mean another leader on the turf. I volunteered to take over his little debriefing job while he was occupied by the Dragons.’ 

‘How kind,’ smiles Hu. 

‘No problem,’ says Liu. There’s a pause where he tilts his head, eyes on Cheung, unrelenting. ‘I’ve been keeping track of your progress, y’know. I really think you should leave Hannibal, go back home, get real jobs and earn a living.’ 

‘Are you… giving us life advice?’ Jin is barely keeping the laughter out of his voice. 

‘No,’ cuts in Cheung. ‘This is some sort of warning.’ 

‘I like you,’ says Liu and if Cheung were a better person - or maybe Jin - he would say the man’s expression was sincere. ‘Hannibal’s operations will be turning towards the newfound kaiju black market. You’ve heard of the kaiju hit on Japan? He wants to scavenge, using our resources, and sell it off, handing back the Chinese a hefty cut.’ 

It’s surprising how frank Liu is with them, his palms turned upwards as if to display his honesty. Cheung does not know what to make of it. 

‘What I’m saying,’ continues Liu when he receives nothing more but three mistrustful stares, ‘is that you might become the crew that needs to dive into kaiju remains. And I wouldn’t have that if I were you.’ 

‘So what do you propose?’ asks Cheung finally. 

‘Join me,’ says the other. ‘Or go home - to Shanghai. It’s dangerous here.’ 

Cheung doesn’t tell him that home is the place where Jin’s laughter is caught in his throat, where Hu’s fingers hook on his sleeve for attention, the space where Cheung settles in between them on their shitty mattress in the middle of a decaying Kowloon at the end of each day; Cheung is right at home. 

‘We’ll think it over,’ says Cheung, smiling tightly. ‘Now, I think the crowd is calling us.’ 

\- 

As long as the fights continue and there are no kaiju attacks on Hong Kong, Cheung and his brothers are safe. They keep studying under Huang’s stern tutelage, listening to his voice carry over both facts and experience. 

‘They don’t tell this to you in textbooks, but the actual sensation of the drift is quite noisy and distracting.’ He’s standing at the chalkboard, pointing at a diagram of the brain. ‘The cerebellum and midbrain are both connected to the Jaeger and the other pilot, making emotions run high and control of oneself and one’s instincts unstable.’ 

Hu raises his hand. ‘If two pilots are needed for the load of an entire Jaeger, would three brains be able to handle a more complex Jaeger?’ 

Huang lays a heavy stare on Hu but - much to his credit - seems to ponder the question with seriousness. ‘I have heard of recruiting quadruplets in America, but as of yet - no concrete data has been recorded and analyzed. If it _is_ possible, then the Conn-Pods would have to be redone and refitted, as well as a newly-wired Jaeger to split the neural load three or four ways between the pilots.’ A pause. ‘And some engineer is going to murder you for the extra work.’ 

A wave of soft laughter ripples through the class. Hu grins and ducks his head, but Cheung catches his brother’s contemplative look as he scribbles something down in his notebook. 

Still, the attacks do not stop and Cheung has dreams of Hong Kong crushed under the heavy claw of a kaiju, his brothers swept away by the sea, his own lungs full of salt water as he yells to bring them back. Then he dreams of Hannibal’s golden-tipped smile as he orders them to dive into a dead kaiju’s stomach, rip out the intestines glowing green and blue, their hands stained and rotting later on once they’re showering back in their apartment. 

He wonders if Huang knows about Liu, or rather about him and his brothers and their night job so they can afford food and notebooks and pencils to write their exams with. Technically this is Hong Kong, and everyone will know everyone. Cheung is careful to keep him and his brothers isolated from the community, but it is hard when Hu makes friends with the local grocer woman to get an extra eggplant, or when Jin teaches the street kids tricks outside of their apartment and they bring back childish treats for him with the money they’ve picked up. 

Even Cheung is sometimes swept into conversation by bartenders and local thugs of the fight rings they occupy - exchanging information, money, and respect for Cheung’s anonymity and safety. It is not the life he had thought of when he was eight years old back in Shanghai, with a disappeared father and a mother on the phone with relatives. 

That is the past, of course, and he doesn’t have time to remember that. They’re in Hong Kong now, not Shanghai, and Cheung will make his home wherever he can, and quell any threat to it. Threats that now consist of Liu and Hannibal - two gangsters where his brothers’ safety and continued health lie. It irks him. 

Cheung doesn’t know anything about Liu. He’s been cornered now. 

‘Don’t wait up,’ he tells Jin and Hu. ‘Grab dinner on your way home, I’ll meet you guys later.’ 

Jin levels him with a long stare until Hu tugs at his arm. ‘C’mon, big brother’s orders.’ With reluctance, they leave the classroom as Cheung approaches Huang at his desk. 

The rest of the class is still clearing out, the clatter of desks, the scrape of chairs against the floor, the murmurings between classmates and click of pens. It’s white noise that helps to ease Cheung as he clears his throat and bows once. ‘Teacher.’ 

Huang looks up from the paper on his desk and nods. ‘Cheung.’ 

‘Do you know anything about the local gangsters in Hong Kong?’ 

A pause. ‘Do I seem like I do?’ asks Huang, eyebrows raised as if amused. 

Cheung teeters on his feet, feeling young (he remembers he’s seventeen) and unsure before: ‘I trust you.’ 

Immediately, Huang’s expression smoothes out. He turns serious, as if he’s back to teaching, and looks Cheung straight in his eyes. ‘You know you and your brothers are one of the best and brightest in this class, and I won’t lose you three. So, tell me, have you run into trouble?’ 

With great effort, Cheung admits to it: ‘with a man named Liu.’ 

‘Anything else?’ 

‘He’s young for a gangster,’ he admits, but flounders at anything else. ‘He’s making deals with a white man named Hannibal. American. And someone else named Dragon.’ 

Huang slides his palm over his desk in contemplation before standing up. ‘I’ll ask. I’ll let you know.’ 

Something like relief floods Cheung’s chest, and he hopes against hope that this was the right choice. When he leaves the school, he heads straight to the apartment, weaving through the crowded streets and long alleyways, the muffled noises of the streets filtering past him as he grabs the railing and climbs the seven flights of stairs to his apartment. 

Jin is smiling when Cheung lets himself in. ‘You talked to Huang?’ 

He should be surprised, but of course they’re like this - knowing each of his moves despite any effort to conceal himself, not that he was trying too hard this time. ‘Yeah - he said he’d look into this for us.’ 

Hu hums, tinkering with the burner to get the water boiling. ‘I can talk to people too.’ 

‘We’ve talked about this,’ snaps Cheung. ‘You stay out of this.’ 

‘Okay, alright,’ concedes the other with a sigh, and Jin gets up from the cot, clapping his hand on Cheung’s shoulder. 

‘We’re going to be fine,’ he smiles, and Cheung thinks he would gladly die to keep this with him forever. 

\- 

In the following weeks, Huang asks for Cheung after class and admits he is still looking for information, but are Cheung and his brothers safe? 

For now, yes, Cheung replies. Liu still comes to their fights but he has not engaged him or his brothers in the last month and he doesn’t seem to have any inclination anymore. Probably thought that Cheung would approach him as Liu had given his offer and now waits. Except Cheung plans to make him wait forever. Until they’re through with school and whisked away to the Shatterdome where the lotus flower petals can hide them away from anything dirty of Hong Kong. 

Then Huang hands him an address on a scrap of paper. ‘If there is an emergency and you must hide, go here.’ 

Cheung wonders how much of the help is from respect and how much for Huang to keep his investments alive. He doesn’t have time to ponder this, of course. There is studying to be done and food to be scavenged and brothers to be taken care of. 

He does scout out the address a week later, dressing in a dark sweater and jeans as he ducks around the alleyways. It’s a quiet street, not clean but not dirty either, with the buildings pressed close and clotheslines hanging between the rooftops and windows, now empty due to the incoming rain clouds pressing from the horizon. The address points to a corner grocery store, so Cheung walks in, glancing over the shelves at the woman sitting at the till, her aged hands curled on the glass counter as she watches the news from a mini TV set at the corner of the counter. 

For Huang to lead them to a grocery store almost seems condescending, as if he’s pointing out their poverty, but Cheung resists judgement for now. He is still learning about this city. That Hong Kong was not made of one facade pressed against another, but intertwining mesh of connections and people and roads and alleyways - crushing up against each other in a blend so it was hard to figure out who was who and what was what. 

Finally, he buys broccoli, garlic, a carton of eggs, and a pack of gum. The woman smiles - something about it eerily familiar, but Jin is the one who is better with faces - and nods at him. He does the same while she rings it all through and places them in a bag. He hesitates, then asks: ‘is this the right address?’ when showing her the slip of paper. 

She reads the handwriting and nods, ‘yes. Did someone recommend our store?’ 

Flushing, Cheung replies: ‘my uncle,’ and the lie doesn’t taste bitter on his tongue at all. 

It’s odd, but Hong Kong is odd. Cheung will figure it out later, but if they are in danger, he supposes holing up in a grocery store is, in fact, a better idea than most. There’s food and clean water and it’s inland enough that Cheung hopes even monsters like kaiju cannot reach. 

Hu thanks him for the food when Cheung finally gets home. They eat and study and Cheung thinks of it no more, as exams begin to pile and Huang only shakes his head and no new news comes to pass. For a little while, life is a routine lull, if street fighting and studying could be one, and Cheung thinks they’re going to be fine. 

\- 

The world does not work in Cheung’s favour, but it rarely does. 

There is a kaiju attack as they enter the second and final year of their education. By the end of December, the second generation of Jaegers will be ready \- something sleek and sharp, named Shaolin Rogue and ready to be mass produced like the other Horizon Braves. 

Except they’re not ready _now_ , and it takes hard attack after hard attack from the various Horizon Braves to finally destroy it, the kaiju corpse dropping in the middle of Kowloon with a dying groan like an earthquake in Cheung’s ears. 

He grabs his two brothers and runs. Runs fast, hard, feet pounding on the ground. Get inland, go, now - adrenaline pumping in his veins, his grip on Jin’s wrist sweaty and threatening to slip as he keeps sprinting. Hu is up ahead, his white tanktop fluttering around his shoulders like a flag of surrender, but Cheung refuses. Only keeps running. 

Eventually the screaming stops. Eventually the tremors under their feet halt. Eventually the rain and thunder and lightning (of missiles or kaiju claws or real nature - Cheung does not know) come to an end. Eventually, the world is silent and breathes, and Hu slows down his running, head turned over his shoulder. 

Cheung follows suite, unable to see the low shadow of a standing kaiju nor a Jaeger. Then, the insect buzzing of helicopters tune in, sliding into the low sky, dotting the sky like mayflies against the retreating storm clouds now that the kaiju and Jaegers have fallen. 

‘It’s over,’ Hu breathes, ‘holy fuck.’ 

Cheung takes a step further inland, still looking back, and then another. Fear is settling deep within his bones. Another step. ‘It’s not, it’s not. We need to find a place to hide.’ 

The grocery store comes back to mind. It’s even further inland and it will be safe for them should Hannibal come knocking on their apartment door for recruitment. He’s not touching dead kaiju, nor is he letting his brothers poison themselves for money. 

They keep running, this time Cheung leading them through the various alleyways, pushing past terrified citizens as the thundering waves following the kaiju’s body slam up against Victoria Harbor and crush buildings and cars under its force. 

Cheung doesn’t want to think of dead bodies. He won’t. He fucking won’t. 

The grocery store’s lights are all out, the sign hanging heavy and dark. Jin and Cheung kick the door down and step inside, Hu following behind as the lookout. They prop the door back as much as the can over the entranceway and duck behind the shelves as they move to the back of the store. It’s dark and quiet - no hum from the coolers with the milk and cheese, and the mini TV set’s screen gone black. 

Cheung finds the back door and pushes it open, revealing a small set of stairs that lead upward. He prepares to climb them when Hu points to another door and another set of stairs leading to a basement. They split up. ‘Jin, Hu - check out the basement and stay there. I’m going to see if anyone’s alive up there.’ 

‘Be careful, bro,’ says Jin before Hu takes his arm and they descend the stairs. Cheung takes a breath and then goes up the narrow staircase, the creaking wood underneath his feet already signalling to the occupants that someone is in their home. 

It leads to a small, swept landing with another door that he pushes open with ease, peeking into a cozy, well-furnished apartment. It smells like a home, thinks Cheung. Like cooked egg, and seafood, and rice from a rice cooker, mixed with detergent from clean clothes, an undercurrent of stale human living strung through. 

There’s a small kitchen, a TV set against the wall, two cots in the corner, colourful blankets, and various tiny statues scattered over various flat surfaces - the typical buddha statues and golden brushed cats, and a frog with its mouth open and coins painted inside. 

‘Hello,’ calls Cheung, except this is the whole apartment, and the doorway to the bathroom is open and obviously empty. There are no shoes in the entranceway either. The occupants have obviously gone. Cheung opens the refrigerator and sees fresh produce stacked on the shelves. They’ll be coming back. Glancing out the window of the apartment, he can see neither the sea nor the destruction the kaiju and Jaegers have left, but the residents could also have been caught in the crossfire. 

Don’t think of the dead bodies, Cheung. 

Finally, he peeks at the movies, and books, and pictures hanging on the wall. A young man and woman, recently married. A small child. Another picture - a family one, of the wedding. Cousins, aunts, uncles, elder and younger. Cheung recognizes the woman from the counter, and looks to the man beside her. He is not familiar, but the man beside him _is_. It’s Huang. 

Oh - they’re brother and sister, this old woman and Huang. Cheung straightens, looks around, hopes he hasn’t displaced anything and that his shoes are clean. The apartment doesn’t change, but Cheung’s skin prickles as if he’s invaded some private space. He reminds himself - Huang invited you here. Wanted you and your brothers to be safe. 

With that thought, Cheung descends the stairs after carefully shutting the door behind him. Finding the staircase to the basement, he enters a musty, but cool area underground. It’s a square space that’s been built and furnished into another smaller apartment, with two cots, and a small burner for a stove, plus a rug and a shelf. However, it’s cramped due to half the square space dedicated to massive freezers pressed along the walls and storage space for multitudes of canned and packaged food in boxes stacked upwards. 

Hu and Jin are peering behind the furniture and boxes, checking for traps of any sort. They wave to him when he returns. ‘This place seems clean,’ announces Hu after a few more minutes of looking and examining everything. 

‘It’s actually not that bad? Except for the fact that there’s only two tiny windows and two light bulbs down here.’ Jin props his hands on his hips. ‘No one seems to live in the basement either. No clothes or mess or anything.’ 

Cheung’s throat is tight. ‘This is for us.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asks Hu sharply, suspicious. 

‘He told me to come here if things got dangerous,’ says Cheung, ‘and it has. We can’t go back.’ 

‘Back home?’ asks Jin, the first notes of distress inching up his throat. 

‘Hannibal’s men will be crawling all over it, looking for us, to recruit us for… kaiju clean-up. We have to hide out for now. Until things cool down.’ 

‘That could be months, bro,’ says Hu, ‘we need our stuff. Our notes and books and - and - everything.’ 

‘I’ll - I’ll figure it out, okay? Don’t worry.’ Cheung takes another look around the apartment. ‘Huang’s sister lives upstairs; let’s wait for her to come home, and then we can think this over.’ 

So, Hu uses the packaged food and the burner and they eat silently, sitting on the cots, listening for any movement upstairs. An hour passes. Another. Cheung and Jin go back to the entrance of the grocery store and replace the lock with another they found in the maintenance closet. That takes an hour. The daylight has vanished; sun sinking down in the horizon at the same rate of Cheung’s stomach. 

At midnight, Cheung runs up to the bathroom on the upper floor and throws up, lets the salty-sweet taste of pre-prepared food seep out of his mouth as he leans his forehead against the cool ceramic of the toilet seat. The tiles are hard and unrelenting against his knees so he stands, and the water is icy from the sink so he washes his face. 

In the mirror, a skinny, haggard kid with fuzz growing in around his scalp and upper lip stares back at him, charcoal smears under his eyes and cliff sides carved from his cheekbones. He might be eighteen or twenty four, it’s hard to tell. If Cheung drops his gaze to dip past his collarbone, he wonders if he’ll see a gnawing pit where his stomach and heart should be, some black hole behind his ribs, ready to swallow all his hope whole. 

Ten minutes later, Cheung goes back to the basement. They’ve pushed the two cots together, Hu on one side and Jin on the other. They blearily blink back into awareness before Cheung quietly shushes them and slides between his brothers. Tomorrow, tomorrow, there’s hope in tomorrow. 

\- 

It’s still dark when they wake up in the morning. They go upstairs, wash up, and head empty-handed to the school, locking the grocery store behind them. The commute is longer now with the store being significantly more inland than their apartment. 

The sea’s mist skates over Cheung’s cheeks when he walks past the familiar courtyard. Behind them, kilometers away, the carcass of a kaiju remains, along with blown pieces of scrap metal and craters from each step of the Jaegers. It’s amazing that the Shatterdome and the factory remain untouched, as does the school. 

When they sit in the classroom, their fingers skate over the flat surface of their desks in self-consciousness before their classmates take pity on them. ‘You can borrow some paper and a pen if you want,’ says a girl with short hair beside him. She has a fat lower lip and throws a mean kick to the gut during physical education. Jin grins, calls her Chen, and thanks her graciously. It’s enough to start a domino effect amongst the class - piling paper and pencil into Cheung and Hu’s hands afterwards. 

Then they settle, sitting back in their desks, waiting. Waiting for Huang. 

Three hours later, there’s no Huang, and Cheung pukes in the school bathroom. The key in his pocket feels like an anvil, pinning his legs to the ground. He doesn’t want to go back. Doesn’t want to use Huang’s generosity for himself. 

Jin’s hands slide over Cheung’s shoulders just then, and Hu is murmuring something soft in his ears as they ease him from the stall. They clean him up silently, their eyes dark but non-judgemental. Cheung begins to breathe normally again. He tightens his belt to ignore his hungry belly as the lunch hour passes, sitting between both his brothers on a bench, watching the lapping of the waves. 

‘Do you think…’ starts Hu carefully. ‘Do you think he’s gone?’ 

Cheung grunts. Jin picks up the slack: ‘You mean dispatched to another maintenance crew of a Jaeger? He was always talking about the Shatterdome being visited by other Jaegers, maybe they took him with them.’ 

‘Maybe,’ concludes Hu, with a hopeful pitch at the end. 

\- 

They return to the store, and Cheung makes an executive decision. 

‘I’ll go back to the apartment and get all our stuff.’ 

‘That’s a really stupid idea,’ supplements Jin helpfully. 

‘It’s only been a day and Hannibal has invested a lot of money in us, he won’t let us go that easily. They’ve probably trashed this place looking for us, honestly,’ says Hu, pragmatic as always. 

‘I have a better idea!’ says Jin, grinning, seemingly oblivious to Cheung’s long stare. ‘I’ll go around, talk to the street kids - remember Tian? He can scout out for us and come back and tell me whether it’s safe or not to go back to our place.’ 

‘That’s… that could work,’ admits Hu, smiling, leveling Cheung with an expectant stare. Faced with logic, Cheung relents, and they dress up in dark sweaters to duck into the long alleyways of Hong Kong once more, relying on Jun this time. 

\- 

Tian has buckteeth and tattered shoes, but his eyesight is keen and his explanations quick and excited, seeing Jin-ge in so long is always a treat. The other streetkids mill around them, avoiding a stony-faced Cheung to talk to Jin or Hu, and asking Hu for tricks. 

Hu teaches them all bad puns, making them laugh, and glances up at Cheung. ‘They’re keeping men posted there, huh?’ 

‘I’ll find more books for us, and notepads, and everything else,’ promises Cheung. 

‘I know - I’m just reminding you,’ replies Hu patiently. ‘Don’t do anything dumb, big bro.’ 

\- 

Cheung doesn’t listen to little brothers anyway, he reassures himself. 

He’s in the basement again, plotting out how to drop from the fire escape to the seventh floor apartment, break into his own home, and stuff all their shit into a bag, and then leave before the guards notice - when the grocery store door shatters open upstairs. 

‘Hu, Jin, hide!’ he snarls, except his brothers stare at him like he’s an idiot. 

‘We’re streetfighters,’ reminds Jin, his voice dripping with condescension. ‘We fight _together_ , Cheung. C’mon.’ 

Carefully, they file up the stairs, Cheung to the front, Hu at the back, and duck behind the shelves on the main floor. The lights had eventually turned back on in the past few hours, but the wretched smell of spoiled milk reeks from the coolers in the back, making the men who have just entered the premises start a series of cuss words that let Cheung identify where they all are. 

They get closer and closer to the coolers, Hu cringing but obeying, because the men aren’t likely to approach the smell. They’re Chinese, Cheung figures, with Hong Kong accents. From the low pitch, Cheung wants to say they’re bigger-sized men but he can’t tell for sure unless he ducks above the shelves and reveals himself. 

They’re not friendly - from their swearing and rough rummaging behind the counter. Surprisingly, they don’t seem intent on robbing anything when they slam the drawers and cupboards and maintenance closet shut after they’re done. One of them snarls out a rough, ‘where else should we look?’ 

‘Anywhere, everywhere,’ a familiar voice calls out. ‘Hannibal says they’re dead, but I say otherwise.’ 

It’s Liu. Hu and Jin stare up at him and Cheung flounders. Doesn’t know what to do. If it’s danger or not. For a terrified moment, he wishes Huang were here - but that’s irrational and can’t help the situation, but Cheung is young and scared and _not equipped_ to handle this. 

‘Here,’ calls Hu, making the decision for him when he stands up and moves through the shelf, revealing himself entirely. 

For an entire panicked moment, Cheung thinks they’re going to kill him, and flies upwards, blocking off Hu’s path when all the gangsters’ heads turn towards them. Liu is standing by the cash till, his face more haggard now. The skin seems sallow under the dim lighting, with sunken-in cheeks and deep bruises under his eyes. However, Liu seems intent on making up for this as his hair is still well-brushed and he’s in casual street clothes. The men around him are similarly dressed, buzzcuts and short hair, their expressions sharp as they zone in on Hu and Cheung standing defiantly in the toiletries aisle. 

‘Cheung,’ says Liu, his expression collapsing into something that reads like gladness and relief. ‘Hu, and - where - where’s Jin?’ 

‘Are you going to kill us?’ snaps Cheung, a clear indication for Jin to stay hidden. He isn’t going to lose both his brothers. 

‘No - no, of course not.’ Liu’s speech is less practiced and smooth. The fatigue seems to be taking a toll on him. ‘Why would I do that?’ He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up entirely. ‘I just wanted to make sure you three were still alive, and away from Hannibal.’ 

Why! Cheung wants to yell. Why do you care when no one else does? Except he’s pretty sure that Liu doesn’t understand it himself when he floundered to convince them of his sincerity months ago. That Liu, Cheung had been unable to trust and right now - standing before him - is a changed Liu. He is someone stressed and fatigued. Someone desperate. ‘Please tell me Jin is still alive. You wouldn’t let him die without killing yourself.’ 

Cheung at least is reassured that Liu is human, but it makes his skin prickle in distrust when he calls Jin’s name and feels the comforting heat of his presence beside him a beat later. Liu’s face is relieved. ‘You survived.’ 

‘That’s it?’ says Cheung, voice flat. ‘Yes, we’re alive, we have food and a place to sleep. We’re fine.’ 

Liu doesn’t seem convinced. ‘Hannibal will look for you again if he finds out you’re alive.’ 

‘Are you going to sell us out?’ challenges Cheung. 

‘No, of course not. I’m here to hear your answer.’ Liu places a hand on the counter, leveling Cheung with an expectant stare. ‘You called me out, with your uncle Huang.’ 

The name still makes his stomach twist when he thinks it, but out loud, Cheung has to steel his gut against the emotional blow. ‘Huang is dead. Why didn’t you come earlier? Months ago?’ 

‘I don’t talk to military and police affiliates. Especially not UN affiliates,’ answers the other easily. ‘He was persistent, so I eventually gave him an address, but he never came. Then a kaiju attacked, and I went looking for this one connection I had with you three. He… passed away.’ A pause. ‘So I went looking for you personally, but Hannibal was at your apartment first - trashing it up for a clue as to whether you were alive and escaped. I decided to try my own search and here I am - at your aunt’s place.’ 

‘And what do you want? Why did you even bother?’ Cheung just doesn’t fucking _understand_. 

Liu looks at him again - and his expression is warm, _sincere_. ‘To help you. To go back to your home to Shanghai. To get you out of Hannibal’s claws. He’s going to find you eventually.’ 

‘We can’t leave,’ snaps Jin this time. ‘We have a life here. We’re going to school. Just - just leave us alone; stop bothering Cheung.’ 

‘School?’ It comes as an evident surprise. 

‘Jaeger pilot training, we’re in our second year. We were streetfight for money to keep us afloat. You didn’t even know that?’ Jin is picking up on Cheung’s distress, voicing it all out, shutting Liu down. It occurs to Cheung then that sometimes he forgets he’s not alone in this. 

Liu doesn’t even pause to take it all in when he’s replying with: ‘and new books? Food? How are you afloat now?’ 

Cheung thinks about the hidden jar of cash behind the mini refrigerator of their apartment. How it’s probably been opened and smashed and stolen. How they’re just living off the packaged goods in the basement now and hoping they won’t realize the grocery store’s owners are now deceased and shut down electricity and water. He doesn’t say anything, and even Jin and Hu flounder for a response. 

‘And your aunt and uncle didn’t leave you anything except this place behind,’ remarks Liu, not unkindly. ‘You need help, Cheung.’ 

It feels too much like surrender. Like he’s being lured into something dangerous again. Like Liu isn’t going to use them up and spit them out because Chinese gangsters are known for their ruthlessness, not generosity. 

Still: ‘I won’t murder for you, I won’t deal for you, I won’t scavenge for you - the only thing I can do is fight for you,’ replies Cheung, ‘and you still want to help us?’ 

‘That’s fine,’ says Liu, and he smiles warmly. Maybe the third time’s the charm? Maybe Cheung has been inching towards one of his own after Hannibal. Or maybe Liu is genuine and it curls around Cheung’s ribs like reassurance. That someone else loves his brothers and wants good for them the same way Cheung wants them to succeed. Liu is still smiling when he repeats himself, just as sincere: ‘that’s fucking fine.’ 

Hu slides his hand around Cheung’s wrist, grounding him, and Jin does the same on the other side. After a slow, shuddering breath, Cheung gives in and bows with his brothers: ‘thank you, dai lo.’ 

\- 

For the next three days, they clean up the rotting produce and spoiled dairy products. The grocery store is emptier and colder than before. There’s money in the cash till - not even Liu and his goons have touched it, and Cheung has epic moral debates with himself at night over using it or not. 

Eventually he gives in. Huang gave this to them, and no one is coming back. He pockets all the cash and coins. When Hu sweeps the floor, they pick up some more stray change, and Jin accidentally stumbles upon a safe behind a false covering of a shelf in the maintenance closet, which they break open. More money. More chances to survive. 

Liu returns those three days later and tells them he’s brought out all their stuff. It’s one suitcase worth of things - clothes, kitchen utensils, textbooks and notes, pens, pencils with some new ones mixed in because Liu wants to treat his little brothers. 

He keeps Cheung on edge every time they meet - and though they have pledged allegiance to him, it still takes a long while before Cheung can even stand to be in a room with him alone. It is Hu that reaches out first, shares with him the bare minimums of their story and training, how they plan to escape poverty in order to save the world. (And save themselves, you see, Cheung wants to add, but Liu’s face says he understands and it makes Cheung’s traitorous heart warm up). 

\- 

Eventually, Liu drops by in a dress shirt and jeans, careful to leave his muddy shoes at the steps, and Cheung doesn’t know what to do, holding a broom and remembering that both Jin and Hu have gone out shopping for new clothes, their jeans ripped and tanktops going threadbare from repeated washings. 

‘Dai lo,’ greets Cheung, heart in his throat, and Liu shoots him a disarming smile, gaze passing over the empty space that Cheung is trying to sweep before catching the other’s gaze. 

‘You alone, then?’ And Cheung nods, cleaning up the dustballs and throwing it all in the trash before proppinging the broom in the corner beside the sink. ‘So - Cheung, how are you?’ 

The question catches him off-guard, skin still prickling with wariness that Cheung does not believe will ever leave. ‘Fine.’ 

‘And studies?’ prompts Liu, now sitting down, reclining on the cushions as he pokes at the textbooks piled up. ‘Still in the running to be Jaeger pilots?’ 

‘Yes, it’s fine. We’re all fine,’ says Cheung, a tad impatient, eager to be past this supposed interest on Liu’s part - who is unpredictable as a summer storm. 

The tone catches Liu’s attention, who looks up at him, smile fading from his mouth. ‘Is something wrong, Cheung?’ 

Cheung clicks his jaw shut and shakes his head, forcing a smile that makes his face crumple into a grimace instead. It wouldn’t do to bite the hand that feeds. 

Yet, Liu sees right through him, as if he has been through similar conversations. A perk of being a gangster, Cheung supposes. This innate ability to read people like open books. ‘You don’t like me, yet. Not the way your brothers do. I don’t blame you, y’know.’ 

Cheung slits his eyes. ‘You’re too generous, y’know. Too eager. Too sincere.’ 

Liu purses his mouth and nods, accepting the criticism. ‘I get that way about things I like.’ 

‘We’re not _things_ ,’ snaps Cheung almost immediately. 

‘How do I say this...’ hums Liu, eyes still on Cheung but the humour vanished altogether from his expression. ‘I’m jealous of you, Cheung.’ 

They’re at a brink of something here. Teetering on the edge where Cheung is afraid Liu will push him off and watch him plummet if he continues talking, but Cheung can’t stop him. He blinks once, twice, waiting. 

‘I see myself in you three - is that self-centered to say?’ Liu snorts, ‘but it’s true. But mostly in Jin. You’ve noticed, haven’t you? He’d be _me_ if it wasn’t for you.’ 

Childlike, playful, easy, charming, with no sense of morals or a guide to what is right and wrong. Jin with his overactive imagination and willful abundance of energy, his passion to try anything and everything. Essential that practical and pragmatic Hu at his side grounds Jin, keeping him firmly rooted in reality, but never stifles him. Not the way Cheung is afraid he will suffocate Jin with his protectiveness and his desire to keep him close. ‘You don’t know anything about us,’ he replies, finally. 

‘Only that I want to see what I could be with a big brother,’ says Liu. ‘I’m an only child, y’know. My mother would be rolling in her grave to see what I do.’ 

‘I don’t need to know this,’ says Cheung sharply, trying to get away from this offer of intimacy. 

‘You won’t trust me until you do,’ reminds the other, voice patient. ‘You’re my charity case, Cheung. You’re proof to my own doubtful moral standing that I can be a good person.’ 

‘An ego-stroke,’ he says flatly. 

Liu smiles, ‘exactly. And maybe, along the line, I’ve actually come to like you more than I thought. Anyway, it makes a man look good. Give back to the community. Raise up the first triplet Jaeger pilots from the ground up.’ 

The worst part is that Cheung cannot even deny him the role in their lives. How Liu inserts himself smoothly between them and gives them more than they can repay. The honesty stings and digs deep in Cheung’s stomach, but his heart knows it for the truth more than anything else. 

‘You really are just a fan, aren’t you?’ remarks Cheung wryly. 

Liu laughs, easily, but his eyes are cool and steady as they pin the other to the wall of the apartment. ‘And now you know, so don’t play coy with me.’ 

With a surprisingly easy breath, Cheung meets Liu’s gaze and finally finds his footing, steadying himself against the solid foundation of honesty and manipulation, something that Cheung is intimately familiar with. ‘Yes, dai lo.’ 

\- 

It isn’t until a month later of surviving off Liu’s generosity (he’s even found them an apartment - on the seventh floor, again, but closer to the academy than they could’ve dreamed and Cheung loves the feeling of sleeping in again without worry) that Cheung hears news of a turf war. 

‘You can’t afford to do this for us,’ he says when Liu comes over, bearing food and a new shirt for Jin. (It has Japanese writing printed on it - ‘you can translate it for me,’ jokes Liu when Jin pulls it over his head and peers at his chest, blinking but pleased and bowing in thanks) 

‘I’m your biggest fan, I can do what I like,’ replies Liu airily. Beside him, Hu snorts into his rice. 

Cheung doesn’t let up, hand on Jin’s neck while his brother reclines his head on his thigh, tired from reciting Jaeger mechanics all day and sated from the food. ‘I’ve heard that you and the Dragon have been having… arguments.’ 

‘She’s just crafty. Nothing I can’t handle.’ Liu quirks the corners of his lips in a not-quite-there smile, but Cheung is familiar with that expression considering he’s used it many times. Of denial and self-sufficiency. ‘I’m here because I like you guys. Because I want to see you take Hong Kong by storm, and do it through a Jaeger.’ 

‘Do you need us to fight for you?’ asks Cheung, voice grave. 

‘Finally warming up to me?’ teases the other. 

‘Repaying a great debt,’ shoots Cheung easily. 

‘Hannibal needs to pay you a cut every time he’s on Hong Kong soil, right?’ pipes up Hu, eyes slitted in thought. Cheung both fears and appreciates the expression. 

‘Yes - white men can’t do business on their own here.’ 

‘Then we fight for Hannibal again,’ announces Hu as if it were obvious. ‘He knows we’re alive, he knows we’re under your protection, but he can still make money off us, and you’ll get a hefty cut of it as well, and we can support ourselves.’ 

Liu is staring at him, brow furrowed. ‘You might have forgotten but fighting is painful.’ 

Jin hums a low note from his throat, propping himself up on an elbow digging deep into Cheung’s thigh. ‘Yeah - but we can’t rely on you forever. Even Cheung has thought about it.’ 

‘Ow - you brat - when did I - ’ sputters Cheung, feeling cornered by both his brothers. Liu looks up at him and Cheung stares back, slightly embarrassed. He must show something because Liu frowns and relents, the corner of his mouth twisting. 

‘If you want. Don’t get hurt.’ 

‘For what it’s worth, we’ve always been evenly matched,’ offers Jin. ‘Or - well - we’re better than everyone.’ 

‘Shut up, you cocky brat,’ snaps Cheung without heat, knocking his brother’s elbow from his leg and letting Jin fall down with a muffled sound. 

\- 

Under Liu’s supervision, Hannibal takes them back under his wing easily. Healthy, well-fed, and stocked with knowledge about human anatomy, the triplets have a glorious return - their bodies honed from bloodlust to something sharp and deadly. Enough that the crowd erupts in so much noise that Hannibal makes triple the money than expected. 

The hefty weight of cash in Cheung’s palm is a comfort, and they lock it deep in the small safe Liu had provided them. Hu is dabbing at Jin’s cuts with antiseptic, but there are no broken bones or creaking ribs this time. They were well-prepared, well-aware, and well-trained. Enough that Cheung thinks on strategy in a more full-fledged manner, something that doesn’t skirt around the blurred edges of ‘attack to the left first, and then low, and then to the left again’. 

This time, Cheung can say actual words, make real references to actual moves. Can name a muscle and ask Hu to aim for it, can point at where a fracture will most likely occur and let Jin slam his fist down. Can find himself in a storm of adrenaline, where the sweaty musk of drunk bodies and bloodied opponents fade to the background and victory is written in the smooth, practiced motions of a low kick, elbow to the sternum, fist to the nose. 

At school, the PPDC finds a replacement teacher for Huang, and the three of them learn the rest of the course material quick enough. Cheung studies hard into the night with his brothers, reciting definitions and political alliances and dates into the night, through the morning, reaching the gymnasium where they will take their final round of exams. 

The two years of Jaeger pilot training ends on an ugly, rainy day in December. Their last exam is human anatomy, and Cheung finishes his exam much quicker than expected. To pass time, he sits in his seat and meets the gaze of the invigilators of the test standing at the front of the room. He recognizes a few from his other exams - their faces washed yellow under the ugly fluorescence of the lights, and their clothes plain and comfortable. Only one man stands out - not just for his dark skin, but the military uniform that fits like a glove over his shoulders. 

Stacker Pentecost has been intently supervising the last round of these exams, his face schooled into passivity, but an intensity in his eyes that still makes Cheung’s spine unconsciously straighten whenever it lands on him. There’s a magnetism to the authority that Pentecost exudes, that Cheung sometimes glimpses in Hannibal or Liu when they are surrounded by their own men. 

Yet, Pentecost seems to live in a permanent world of holding himself up to the highest degree and expecting the same from everyone else. It demands respect, and Cheung knows that is something he won’t give. He has only one teacher, and he is dead. He only has one elder brother, and he is not here. 

\- 

They receive a certificate a week later and a sealed envelope. Hu opens it up as they eat lunch in the courtyard. 

‘We’re invited to the Shatterdome next Wednesday with Marshall Stacker Pentecost for a confidential meeting regarding our futures in Jaeger piloting,’ summarizes Hu. ‘A Shaolin Rogue, huh?’ 

‘I heard they’re really pretty,’ says Jin excitedly. ‘Apparently it has double arm blades, and two smaller ones on its legs to knee kaiju in the face. Mark IIIs, man.’ He lets out a dreamy sigh. 

‘You’re gross, y’know,’ complains Hu, ‘has anyone told you that? You’re fucking gross.’ 

‘Yeah, whatever, say that to me after we get in one,’ says Jin, waving the words away, and glancing up at Cheung. ‘Did you see Stacker standing today? Looked almost excited.’ 

‘You think so?’ laughs Cheung. ‘It must’ve been the extra shine on his shoes that gave it away, right? Geez, haven’t seen him in two years, and he looks like the same guy with a pole rammed up his ass.’ 

Jin buries his face in his arms. ‘Seriously, bro. We’ll be seeing him, I don’t want to laugh in his face.’ 

‘Not my problem,’ replies Cheung, grinning. 

\- 

The first time they enter the Shatterdome is something he will never forget. The ground floor entrance is via an armored truck from the wire-tipped fence three kilometers out from the actual building. Cheung is standing with a dozen other recruits of the graduating class. He recognizes four from his own classroom and the rest are the other recruits that had been scattered throughout the school. They have a set time appointed for each group - and Cheung is glad theirs is at noon. It had been way too relaxing of a week after the hellish two years they’ve endured for another five a.m. wake-up call. 

The armoured truck pulls up with a woman in a maintenance overalls and gloves, her hair cropped close to her skull. Sharply, she orders them to climb in the back and stay put. In two minutes, the truck is bumping over the road at a speed Cheung is refusing to contemplate, the blooming Shatterdome in the horizon growing bigger and bigger against the blue of the sky with every minute. 

They clear the long courtyard, which isn’t empty by any means. There are gray, heaving warehouses two-storeys tall built along the main road they’re driving along. Cheung spots other workers, dressed in the same drab maintenance overalls and gloves, tool-belts heavy on their hips, as they slip between various warehouse entrances with clipboards or carrying boxes. Smaller construction vehicles run on smaller roads between the warehouses, touting heavy crates, running into the raised garage doors of said warehouses, yelling for others to move out of the way. 

It’s loud, even over the engine of the truck vibrating beneath Cheung’s feet - the rumble of the other vehicles, the yells, the screech of metal as doors warehouse doors open, the raised towers with speakerphones attached calling for one maintenance crew or another to report to one section or the other. Along the perimeter, Cheung sees military personnel lined up, dressed in the uniform with heavy guns in their hands, looking mostly disinterested as they guard the assembling of Jaegers. Cheung supposes when typical military guns didn’t work on giant sea aliens, the only other job they have is guard duty. With the shadow of the Dome and mounting excitement in his chest, Cheung grins. It was so worth skipping out on applying to the military. 

Up close, the Shatterdome doesn’t resemble a lotus flower at all. The petals are way too high up for Cheung to clearly identify when they’re faced with huge, automatic doors made of reinforced steel and yellow numbers painted on them. For the main ground entrance, the armoured truck slows down to a crawl and the driver yells out her identification number. They clear her through and the giant number one door screeches open, wide enough to let in almost three trucks side-by-side. 

Inside is a cavern, immense and busy, with catwalks crisscrossing each other haphazardly, and huge armaments lined up on the floor of the Shatterdome. Jin makes a muffled sound, leaning out of the truck’s back to take a good long glance at the metal leg of a Jaeger mounted to a scaffold and maintenance crews hanging around it from harnesses attached to heavy metal beams of the room, clearly trying to weld one piece to another if the sparks were any indication. 

‘Stay in the truck!’ snaps the driver, and Hu grabs Jin by the sleeve to pull him back. 

‘Keep your boner under the control, bro,’ snorts Hu. He pauses, then grabs Jin into a headlock. ‘I think this should work.’ 

Jin struggles, pouting. ‘Just because you don’t have any appreciation for the fine details of giant fucking robots doesn’t mean we’re all like you.’ 

‘Hu, let him go,’ says Cheung, ‘and Jin - sit still. We’ll be in a giant fucking robot soon enough. Keep it in your pants.’ 

Hu laughs and obeys, pressing his shoulder against Jin’s in silent apology as Jin rubs at his neck. ‘You’re both assholes,’ he complains. 

‘Duly noted,’ replies Cheung with a grin. 

The truck is small compared to everything else in the Shatterdome. There is a clock over at the back entrance but it is too far for Cheung to make out the numbers. Instead, the armoured truck pulls to the left, parking beside a giant metal thumb that’s being wired by three workers in blue uniforms. Jin keeps staring in fascination until Hu tugs him along behind the group. 

The driver puts on her cap, fixes her nametag and scans them through another set of doors - this time smaller and clearly made for people rather than vehicles and Jaeger parts. It’s all metallic, with uncovered pipes lining the corridor with the path that’s swept clean. In fact, the cleanliness of the entire place surprises Cheung as he peers at the freshly painted wall signs and various doors lining the corridor. Some are unmarked, but others have ‘Electrical’ or ‘Mechanical’ or ‘Break room’ labeled clearly in Chinese, Japanese, English, and various other languages Cheung can’t recognize. 

They take three turns into other similarly built hallways, getting cleared by security personnel at each intersection. Cheung and the others get visitors’ nametags to clip to their shirts. He wonders if they should be wearing something else that isn’t a shirt and jeans and tattered sneakers, but everyone else is also casual and the only uniform he’s seen in the Shatterdome so far are maintenance overalls. 

Finally, the driver punches a code into a keypad next to a rather plain door. It looks like any other door in the hallway with the exception of the two guards at the end of the corridor to the left and the keypad, video screen, and speaker right beside said door. 

A pause after the code has been punched in and a voice crackles through - deep and authoritative. ‘You may come in.’ 

The driver swings the circular wheel that Cheung supposes is the customary doorknob of military bases, or maybe it’s just the Shatterdome. He doesn’t have time to ponder nuances when the door swings open to a rather wide office and living space. 

To the right is a desk, Stacker standing behind it, and to the left a window with a view of the ocean glinting hard and blue under the high noon sun. There’s a cot that’s been pushed up against the wall, another closer door that Cheung assumes leads to the bathroom. The floor between the desk and the window is swept clean and rows of chairs have been set up. Glancing down at the floor, Cheung notes that there’s discolouration between the tiles - a darker colour running a catwalk between the desk and window. When they are instructed to sit in the chairs, the footsteps on the lighter coloured tiles sound hollow. Cheung stomps on it once, but it feels stable and steady. Shrugging it off as another military affect, he takes a seat in the middle row, flanked by Jin and Hu as usual. 

Once they’re all seated, Stacker begins, his Mandarin smoother than two years ago. Cheung almost wants to feel proud. ‘When a superior office is in the room, you will stand and salute. You will not sit until I tell you to do so. Stand.’ 

They obey. While they’ve practiced standard military formations of marching and saluting, Cheung’s arm feels unfamiliar when it raises at a ninety degree angle, the stiffness and tension in his shoulders stringing together and making him ache. He has no doubt Stacker will make them practice this until it’s instinct (‘If you do an action five thousand times,’ he remembers Huang say, ‘it becomes instinctual, but you won’t have five thousand drifts, so it’s best you figure out how to shut your brain up now. I recommend meditation.’), and Cheung holds back a sigh. 

‘At ease,’ says Stacker after half a minute. ‘You may sit.’ 

There are papers on Stacker’s desk that he picks up and rifles through almost in disinterest. ‘When I call your name, I would like you to take this. It is a report on your potential drift compatibility pilots. After you’ve read the profile of your partners, you will note that there are times listed where I expect you to report to the Kwoon. There, you will partake in a sparring session with your partners while I and a few others evaluate your performance. You will return tomorrow at noon once more for final results. Understand?’ 

Cheung feels himself nod, but his stomach tightens with a knot of worry. They wouldn’t separate him and his brothers. It wouldn’t make sense. They were more than drift compatible. Huang had mentioned the quadruplets in America, and if they could do it, China wouldn’t dare toss three triplets and an updated, modified, _better_ Jaeger out of the window. 

Eventually, Cheung’s name is called and he takes the stack of papers before seating himself, watching Hu and Jin get their own reports. Without glancing at the other stuff (a brief description and biography, a psych evaluation, a physical evaluation), Cheung flips to the last page and stares at the names under ‘Potential Drift Compatibility Pilots’. Jin and Hu’s names are absent from the list entirely. 

‘Hu,’ he says, voice urgent. Hu stares up at him and shows his list: it only has Jin’s name on it. When Jin deigns to do the same, it only has Hu written. Cheung is going to murder Stacker. 

Once the last person gets their report, Stacker orders them to stand and salute. ‘You are all dismissed.’ The door swings open, and the driver gestures for them to exit quickly, but Cheung doesn’t move anywhere except to stride swiftly in front of Stacker’s desk and show him the three reports that they got all wrong. 

Stacker looks at him, raising an eyebrow. ‘I said you are dismissed.’ 

‘This isn’t right,’ replies Cheung without missing a beat. ‘You paired my two brothers and left me with these strangers. You separated us.’ 

Stacker seems torn between bodily tossing Cheung out of the room and actually entertaining the idea of answering him. ‘No mistakes were made. According to the various evaluations made by your instructor over the course of your two years, the appropriate pairs have been made. Please report to the Kwoon at your designated time.’ 

‘You’re not listening to me.’ 

‘You are _dismissed_.’ 

Cheung thinks about the body and how Stacker’s chest would cave in should Cheung ram his fist into the man’s sternum. ‘You can’t separate us - we’re triplets.’ 

‘I will listen to you after you’re done your Kwoon evaluations,’ says Stacker flatly, clearly sick of this conversation. He gestures to the driver, who approaches them with fury in her eyes. Cheung inhales sharply. Fine. _Fine_. He would play Stacker’s game if it meant keeping his brothers together. 

‘Tomorrow then,’ he snarls, before grabbing the reports back and leaving the office in a huff, Hu and Jin close behind. 

The door slams shut and the other kids are watching them, obviously overhearing the argument. The driver hustles them down the hallway again, leading them to the cafeteria with a single meal ticket to each of them. ‘Meet back here at six for your ride back. I won’t wait for you.’ 

The cafeteria is wide and bustling, with tables set up in neat rows and different coloured uniforms clustered together. Cheung’s still clutching the papers in his fist, only relaxing when Hu places a hand on his wrist, easing the reports away from him. ‘They won’t separate us. We can just leave if they do, bro.’ 

Jin is at his other side, a hand clasped on his shoulder. ‘Hu and I are together, bro. We’re two-thirds there. C’mon. It’s still two hours before you get to beat people up and prove them wrong, so we should eat.’ 

There’s plates and food lining the entire perimeter of the space. It’s been too long since Cheung has seen such variety - and he pushes his fury aside for appetite, letting Hu and Jin lead him into a line for their meal tickets to be stamped by a machine and picking up a tray. ‘Seriously - haven’t seen so much meat in so long.’ Hu lets out a dreamy sigh, and this time it’s Jin snorting. 

‘Time for you to keep it in your pants, bro,’ he teases, snatching up a bun and nibbling on it, eyes half-lidded when the flavour hits his tongue. 

‘Don’t say that to me when your face looks like you just came,’ replies Hu, piling his plate high, and Cheung follows suite. They grab water and seat themselves beside their peers, who have commandeered a table of their own. They nod to the triplets but otherwise talk amongst themselves, comparing reports and pointing out various Jaeger partners to each other. 

Hu hums around a mouthful of pork when he looks at Cheung’s report. ‘Your psych eval says you’re arrogant and mistrustful.’ 

Jin chokes, and Cheung stares at his brother. ‘I am not. Well.’ He pauses. ‘Okay. But you guys are too.’ 

‘Nah, compared to Jin, you’re - well - evil.’ Hu is smiling at him, a shit-eating grin that deserves a headlock and bruise on the arm. 

Cheung scowls. ‘Let me see that.’ He lays them all out in a row on the table, peering at the writing. 

‘I’m friendly and enthusiastic,’ says Jin, pleased. ‘Look, Hu, you’re approachable.’ 

‘And big bro is mistrustful but loyal. That’s pretty nice.’ 

Cheung skims over the evaluations, deems them fairly correct, and then grabs his own to flip to the back. _The evaluations were written by the instructor to the student at the time._ There’s a small signature section at the bottom - _Written by_ : and the blurred characters of Huang’s name occupy the space, next to Stacker’s signature after _Approved by_. Cheung’s irritation immediately lessens. 

‘It’s accurate isn’t it?’ he mentions, casual, but Hu and Jin stare at him. 

‘Wow - you’re proud of being a terrible person, that’s amazing,’ says Hu, his face cracking into a ridiculous grin as Jin laughs into his hands. 

‘I’m not a bad person,’ defends Cheung, but he has nothing else to add, only shrugging and flipping over to the biography section of his report. There’s the requisite information of age, sex, birthday, hometown, names of their parents. _Cheung and his brothers are streetfighters. Often come to class with bruises and cuts, but are very diligent students, with unwavering attention and notetaking. Connections to any gangs is ambiguous, and parents seem notably absent. Unknown whether they’re dead or missing._

There are memories there that Cheung knows he shouldn’t think on, so he pushes it away and flips over to the physical evaluation, reading a plethora of compliments from Huang on his control and stamina. It makes him grin. 

Eventually, they finish their food and simply wait, talking about nothing. Thinking on Liu and his turf war, about their fight in two weeks, about this one move Hu wanted them to try out. ‘Sounds dangerous,’ remarks Cheung, which is obviously the wrong thing to say because it suddenly makes Jin eager for a bout. ‘Let’s do it.’ 

With half an hour left before Cheung’s designated appearance in the Kwoon, they leave the cafeteria and follow the signs down the various hallways, the nametags clear on their chests as they pass by the security personnel. 

The Kwoon is simply a square room with mats on it, a similar sight to the gymnasium they used to set up every week in school for physical training. There are sticks lining the walls as well as boxing gloves and swords designated for fencing - épées, foils, and sabres. On one end is where the recruits stand in a crowd, watching as the match between the two current recruits continues. It’s hand to hand combat - the recruits a few years older than Cheung but obviously from the same class. The girl has hair cropped short and she lands a high kick on her partner’s shoulder, a boy with sharp elbows and sharper blows. Seamlessly, he backs off, trading a few more blows before jabbing her in the stomach. 

They move smoothly and precisely, practiced. She doesn’t relent when a blow hits her, nor does he ever slow down when she lands a solid one on his own form. In a way, it’s a dance, and Cheung recognizes it from how he fights with his brothers. The adrenaline pounding hard into one’s brain, washing away the extraneous details of the outside world, until it’s the feel of muscle clenching and tensing, of tendons in motion, the inertia of a punch and the give of the mat under the balls of one’s feet. 

Eventually, the dance has to stop. Stacker, a Chinese woman, and a white man stand at the other end of the room, each holding clipboards. The Chinese woman orders them to back off. Both recruits fall back into formation - shoulder to shoulder - and bow deeply to the elders. 

‘Thank you, Xiang,’ and the girl bows once more, ‘Zhu,’ this time the boy bows a second time. ‘You’re dismissed.’ 

Once they’ve turned around, walking off the mat, Cheung sees them bump shoulders gently, as if reassuring each other, and slip their shoes back on. The woman scribbles something on her clipboard and then looks over to the group of recruits. ‘We’ll be starting the next round. It’s hand-to-hand combat. Each of you will trade up to ten blows or ten minutes, whichever comes first. Please change into the given shirt and sweatpants to your right.’ 

Shedding his jeans and shirt, Cheung slips on the soft, grey cotton and sweatpants. It’s loose and comfortable. Bouncing once, twice, on his feet, he stretches his arms over his head, then bends over to pull at his hamstrings and feeling the familiar tingle in his calves. Hu and Jin follow suit, waiting as the first two are called to the mat. 

It’s obvious they won’t be partners with the way their fight is more a series of jabs than anything else. The ten blows are exchanged without much pause and reevaluation in between, and Cheung sees how the woman’s eyes narrow, the way Stacker’s mouth is pursed - close to a frown - and the white man’s brow furrow. They don’t like it. They don’t like it at all. Cheung takes note. 

They cycle through the other recruits soon after. Hu and Jin are called before he is, which is a surprise, but Cheung stands back and watches. It’s not just the familiarity between family, but the blood spilled between them that makes it easy for Jin to parry all of Hu’s strikes and for Hu to skip away when Jin goes on the attack. 

The ten minutes pass quicker than the blows exchanged. Jin is panting, but Hu is the one out of breath from his evasions - both sweating but circling each other, focused on nothing else but the opponent. A year earlier, Hu would’ve tripped on his feet and Jin would’ve fractured his knuckles with his version of a punch. Two years earlier, they’d be at each other’s throats - practice tossed aside for instinct and bloodlust. Now, it is a fine art. Cheung feels a rush of pride. 

The woman calls for a halt, her expression hiding a smile. The pride and irritation war in Cheung - on one hand, his brothers are practiced to perfection. On the other hand, they’re better with him alongside them, guiding them through a fight. 

‘Thank you, Hu, Jin.’ 

Soon after, Cheung is called forward. He has three potential partners. Remembering the first fight, with the viciousness and jabs and no fine control, Cheung smiles. 

Then proceeds to beat all of them into a bruised pulp before the ten minutes are up. 

\- 

‘I’m only drift compatible with you guys anyway,’ defends Cheung with a grin as Hu winces in sympathy when the three recruits limp past them on the way to the armoured truck for the ride back. 

‘Stacker looked like he was going to break both your kneecaps,’ remarks Jin. ‘Are you sure you want to talk to him tomorrow? He might actually follow through.’ 

‘Let him try,’ dismisses Cheung, climbing into the back with his brothers. He had apologized to the three potential partners after the session, but they still flinch away from him when he sits down. He shoots them another, hopefully pitiful-looking, smile, but it doesn’t seem to work. 

The sun is low in the sky by the time they’re off base, casting everything gold. Feeling light and ready for tomorrow, Cheung throws both his arms around his brothers’ necks as they walk home, reports folded and tucked in his pocket. 

\- 

This time the mechanics are working on the index finger in the Shatterdome, which Jin enthusiastically remarks on when they pass by. The leg seems finished from yesterday, and its twin is now clasped into a series of metal clamps to raise it from the ground so the mechanics can mill around the bottom, poking at the underneath. 

Stacker’s office still has that suspicious hollow echo when Cheung steps inside, but the thought is wiped away when they line up, salute, and sit, waiting for the verdicts. Stacker purposefully instructs the driver to lead the other recruits out this time as he keeps Cheung and his brothers in his office for ‘special counselling’. 

Well, if Cheung gets murdered, at least his brothers are witness. 

‘Your display yesterday,’ begins Stacker slowly, ‘was childish.’ 

Cheung meets his gaze easily, challenging. 

‘A Jaeger is piloted by two people. I told you this two years ago, and I’m reminding you once more. You cannot be with your brothers.’ Stacker’s mouth twitches with some untold emotion. ‘It’s impossible for a Jaeger to be piloted by three pilots.’ 

‘Then make it happen,’ shoots Cheung. ‘There are quadruplets in America, and now there’s triplets in China. What’s the difference?’ 

Stacker stares at him. ‘The funding, the technology, the fact that a program for Drift Compatibility hasn’t been developed for more than two minds. Would you like me to continue, Mr. Cheung?’ 

‘I refuse to pilot a Jaeger without my brothers, and they will too. You will simply compromise.’ 

‘I’m your superior, you will listen to me.’ 

And _that_ makes Cheung explode - as if Stacker has _done anything_ to deserve Cheung’s respect, his attention, his obedience. As if there is anyone other than a dead man and a mob boss and his own blood that could have anything of Cheung’s. ‘ _You_ ,’ he snarls, ‘don’t get my respect. You’ve done nothing. You did not teach me, you did not help me, and you have separated me from my brothers. You might be Marshall of this program, but you are not _my_ Marshall.’ 

Stacker exhales and draws his spine straight, squaring his shoulder. When he speaks, a typhoon of rage presses against each syllable, ‘I do not need your respect. I am not here for your affection. I am not your father, nor your mentor, nor your brother. I am your Marshall.’ He parts his mouth, a glimmer of teeth in the light, catching the sun from the window and making it seem sharp and fierce. Enough to have Cheung inhale sharply. Stacker leans forward, towering over his desk and over him: ‘But I will remind you that I trained you and brought you here, and I _will_ have your obedience.’ 

Cheung glares straight back at him, but all his words are stuck in his throat where fear and anxiety war. If he pushes too hard, he won’t have a program to be safe in, he won’t have any chance for his brothers to get out of this life. He won’t have anything. 

Stacker leans back, then inclines his head. ‘Let me hear you.’ 

‘Yes. Sir.’ spits out Cheung. 

With a hum of acknowledgement, Stacker clasps his hands behind his back and looks at all three of them with a burning gaze. ‘For now, you have been reinstated. Your lack of cooperation has been noted, and thus we have taken appropriate action.’ 

Cheung stays silent. Waits for the guillotine to fall. 

‘Your success with the engineering side of things in your classes means that Mr. Jin will be transferred to mechanical, Mr. Hu to computer science, and you \- Mr. Cheung - to electrical. Report to the Shatterdome and speak to a man named Tendo Choi, who will lead you through the specifications.’ 

Stacker blinks, waiting. Cheung’s brain helpfully translates: You should be thankful that I’m keeping you around. You should count your goddamn lucky stars that your ass isn’t out of this base in two seconds flat. You should be pleased that you and your brothers still have a fucking chance. 

After a long pause, Cheung salutes and his brothers follow suit. ‘Yes, sir.’ 

‘Good. Dismissed.’ 

\- 

Tendo Choi is fascinatingly short and energetic and has awful fucking Mandarin. 

‘What the fuck,’ concludes Hu after the initial introductions as Tendo taps at his laptop to get them new nametags, humming to some unheard melody. He has a neck tattoo barely hidden by his bright blue button up, and red and white polka-dotted bowtie strung tight around his collar. His pants are blissfully black and practical, but Cheung thinks he’s spotted socks and ugly sandals on. 

‘Are you talking about his accent or his bow tie?’ asks Jin after a beat. 

‘Play nice,’ says Cheung, but he’s hiding a grin. The J-Tech department is more of a pod that juts out in the Shatterdome, with wide windows, computer screens, holograms, huge tubes and wires hanging around exposed with a window that reveals half-finished Jaegers being assembled slowly and steadily in the main garage of the Shatterdome. It feels high up but there’s no reference point for Cheung. He estimates ten stories, but perhaps it’s fifteen or twenty. 

The scientists themselves are dressed in either maintenance overalls or casual clothing. Button ups and trousers, or jeans and shirts, sneakers, and messy hair as they type at their keyboards - calibrating and recalibrating the Drift program as the for the recruits begin to pile in their computers to be decoded, deciphered, and assembled back again. Like a virtual Jaeger, Cheung supposes. 

Tendo Choi is the head of the department, with his long fingers and fuzzy eyebrows and retro-style hair from an era Cheung has no memory of, but maybe his grandparents do. Tendo grins when the machine next to his computer starts whizzing and three ID cards print out on hard plastic, with their faces, names, ID numbers, and new titles stamped on them. 

‘Here,’ and a slew of something garbled follows. 

Cheung looks at Hu. ‘Don’t you know English?’ 

‘You know English too!’ he retorts. With a sigh, he switches: ‘Hi, Mr. Choi - ah - thank you, for the ID cards. Where should we go next?’ 

Tendo stares at them for a long moment before he stutters and stumbles over in English now. ‘Oh - god, sorry, is this better? I’m practicing, but I’m not that good, y’know? I thought Hong Kong would help, but I think I’ve gotten worse. Man. But - right - next steps.’ He ducks under his desk, wrenching open a drawer of a desk Cheung didn’t even see under the mess of keyboards, computer screens, wires, coffee cups, notebooks, and pens. 

Tendo comes back with three small stacks of paper. ‘Alright - this one is the mechanical manual, and here’s electrical, and here’s coding.’ He hands them out, then grabs another manual from underneath to flip through. ‘It shows where everything is for your respective department, has some troubleshooting tips in case your ID card doesn’t work, and where your break room is in case you need to piss. Let me call over someone to introduce you to your supervisors down in the Shatterdome - one sec.’ He leans over his desk, taps quickly at something, and then drags a microphone from behind a pile of notebooks to speak into it: ‘Paging Wei from Crew twenty three, repeat Wei, crew twenty three. Please report to J-Tech.’ He backs off with a grin. ‘She’ll be here soon, so just sit tight.’ 

‘Thank you,’ says Hu before he resumes flipping through the manual. Cheung glances down at his own - it’s not like he’s bad at engineering or anything. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be in a fucking Jaeger with his brothers. Instead. His mouth creases into a thin line of discontent. 

They wait in the flurry of the department, listening to the clink of cups against desks, the rapid-fire typing, the back-and-forth of languages Cheung can only occasionally recognize between engineers as they trade quips or information. The entire room is cast in a blue glow from the incandescent lighting, curved like a cave, where the smell of coffee, bread, and staleness of human sweat permeates the air. 

He watches the flicker of a hologram to the left of the room, the diagram of a human brain pulled into the air in multicoloured three-dimension, flashing like a candleflame from the light of the projector. An engineer is curled over the screen, her eyes flicking between screen and hologram, while another stands beside her, mouth moving fast: ‘ - can’t connect to the thalamus or it might redirect nocioreceptors to the wrong ends, especially since this pilot has had a concussion already.’ 

‘What if we integrated another pain control gate into the Drift suit then?’ snaps the engineer at her desk. ‘Manually control the nocioreceptors so they go to the opposite ends from the dorsal and thalamus? Just have to reconfigure the the second metal vertebral wiring.’ 

The partner whistles low, running a hand through her hair. ‘Yo, coding’s gonna kill us.’ 

Cheung hums to himself in contemplation as he eavesdrops on the exchange and flickering his gaze to another screen and another pair. Only Tendo seemed to work alone as the head - his desk spanning half the room with three wide screens, two keyboards, a control panel, and three hologram projectors scattered over it. 

It’s only when he flicks his gaze to a third that he notices Jin is gone. ‘Hu, where is he?’ 

Hu looks up from his manual, blinking twice. ‘Oh - he’s behind Tendo’s desk.’ 

‘What?’ Cheung steps aside, moving around the wires, careful not to unhook anything, as he peers around the desk and lo, behold, Jin is on his knees, grinning and chatting up some kid that might be ten or eleven years old. She’s a small thing, with scraped knees, short hair, and a serious expression, but her eyes are bright and interested while Jin chats with her. 

‘ - gonna be a Jaeger pilot too?’ he asks with a wide smile, seemingly genuinely interested, and it obviously catches the girl off guard as she fists the hem of her shirt. 

‘Yeah, I’m gonna pilot a MK III,’ she announces proudly. ‘Tendo said I’m too young for MK IIs right now, but I’ll be ready for MK IIIs.’ 

‘That’s so cool,’ Jin shows her the manual. ‘Have you seen Shaolin Rogue? What part of the Jaeger do you like best?’ 

She purses her mouth in deep contemplation. ‘It has knives on its knees, y’know.’ 

‘Seriously? So it’s true, then!’ Jin teeters in glee. ‘I like the knives best. My brothers have no taste in Jaegers - they just want to punch their way through, but blades are the best, right?’ 

‘Right.’ Relaxed around him now, she props both her hands on her hips. ‘And swords too. I wanna cut kaiju up.’ 

‘Yeah, cause swords don’t run out of ammo, exactly.’ Cheung watches as his brother keeps nodding in understanding. ‘See - you just understand, Mako.’ 

Mako smiles at him, bright and cute, and Hu snorts, spying on them as well. ‘Jin is a kid magnet, seriously. But, man, she has really good Mandarin.’ 

Cheung finds himself agreeing. ‘She’s Japanese? Didn’t know the pilots had kids.’ 

‘Not all pilots are siblings. Drift compatibility is Drift compatibility, right?’ says Hu, stepping back around Tendo’s desk to leave Jin and Mako alone, and Cheung follows. 

Half a minute later and Wei arrives, her hair styled in a bob cut and eyes sharp, dressed in blue maintenance overalls. Her tool belt is strapped over her shoulder and across her chest, a spanner spinning between her fingers. ‘Which one is mechanical?’ 

‘That’d be Jin,’ says Hu, and Cheung calls out for him. From behind Tendo’s desk, a shaved head pops up, and he rocks back on his heels, straightening up. 

‘Hello,’ he greets, and Wei smiles back at him, face changing instantly from stone-cold to almost welcoming. 

‘You’re part of my crew. I’ll be your supervisor as we assemble the Shaolin Rogues down in the Shatterdome.’ She turns to the other two. ‘I’ll drop you guys off with your own supervisors. They’ll review your job contract and salary, you’ll sign, get your uniform and toolbelt, and start. Should take no more than half an hour. So - welcome to the Shatterdome, boys.’ 

From behind the desk, Mako peeks out and then waves to Wei, smiling widely. ‘Hi!’ 

Cheung watches as Wei crouches down, ruffling Mako’s hair. ‘Isn’t your dad looking for you? C’mon, Miss Mori, you can join us too.’ 

That’s when it clicks and Cheung inhales sharply in surprise, looking down at the small body next to his leg, in all its pale skin and frailness, dark hair messily cut, clothes obviously secondhand and from a boy with the loose shorts and drab shirt. She doesn’t fit the image printed out on motivational posters and on the TV screen, touting the heavy title of ‘Tokyo’s Sole Survivor’ - but he supposes two and a half years can ease the trauma of losing a home and parents. Cheung blinks and looks away. 

The Shatterdome had been built with speed of completion in mind, so it’s no surprise that aesthetic value has been sacrificed for the monotony of every hallway, door, and sign looking the exact same. They pass by the coding techs’ break room first and Wei introduces Hu to another woman, her hair streaked white and held in long ponytail as she ushers him inside. 

Wei leaves Jin in the mechanics’ break room next, shouting at her second-in-command, an older man with bushy eyebrows and sleepy look to prepare Jin. With only Cheung and Mako left, the conversation dies off and silence slides between them. Mako looks up at him curiously, blinking slow, and Cheung meets her gaze easily. He was never good with kids - apparently his seriousness scared them off according to Jin, but Mako doesn’t seem to be cowed by his face. 

‘Hello,’ he tries, feeling awkward. 

‘Hi,’ she replies, not missing a beat, watching expectantly. 

‘I’m Cheung, Jin’s big brother.’ 

‘I know that.’ 

Floundering, Cheung just clicks his mouth shut and gives up, following Wei around two more corners, listening to her speak code into the walkie-talkie at her shoulder, barking out orders and adjustments though she isn’t even there. She doesn’t seem old, but she probably has experience in spades - hopefully, Jin will learn something. 

The door she stops at has the word ‘electrical’ smeared over it in white paint, and she pushes it open, introducing him to his own supervisor: a man with scars littered along with his wrinkles, his one eye closed from an injury. Dressed in green overalls with his own toolbelt, he seems to move smoothly despite the obvious disfigurements over his body. 

‘This is your supervisor, Jian. I’ll see you guys in the Shatterdome later then.’ Wei tosses a wave and hustles Mako down the hall - ‘now let’s get you back to the Marshall - ’ 

‘But I don’t want to yet - ‘ Cheung hears Mako whine before the door shuts behind him and he’s in the breakroom. It’s split in half - with a small kitchen to the right and chairs and desks to the left. A door to the back is half-open to reveal a sink and shower stall. It’s clean, the walls tacked with motivational posters of men and women in overalls and hard hats, their combat boots stomping on slogans to join the cause. 

Jian is a big man, both in heft and height, his hands large and also scarred, the marks light and threading up his forearm like a fishing net before disappearing under the rolled sleeves of his uniform. 

Later, Cheung will know that is scarring from shrapnel when the kaiju attacked Hong Kong. How there had been a maintenance crew going out for dinner. How Huang had been with them, waving goodbye to meet his wife and daughter, halfway on his walk where his sister and brother-in-law and their two children were waiting at the restaurant. How the restaurant was instant rubble and Jian had been lucky, oh-so-lucky, and his scars blessed by the man at the temple down in Mong Kok. 

For now, he gestures for Cheung to sit at a table before lumbering to the cupboard above the stove and pulling out a pile of papers from a box. 

There are other engineers either chatting to each other, boiling water for tea, or writing something at the table. It’s not a wide space, but it doesn’t feel particularly crowded with him, Jian, and about six others in the room. 

‘Does anyone else want tea?’ calls out the man at the stove, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his overalls. A chorus of assent erupts in the room, and the man opens up another cupboard to pull out cups. Jian soon returns with a small report and a pen, sliding it across the table to Cheung. 

‘Read it over,’ he rumbles, ‘and feel free to ask questions.’ 

The contract is for a year’s worth of work, the hours unspecified, but a lumpsum payment written on the bottom. Already, Cheung knows they’ve used this loophole to be as cheap as possible, but it’s more money than nothing, so he signs without much bitterness. Jian folds it up in an envelope and signs it. ‘I’ll send it up to administration to be scanned and added to the records. For now, let’s find you a uniform and tools.’ 

There’s a closet door perpendicular to the bathroom entrance. Jian shuffles through it, pulls out a smaller, matching green overall and a pre-prepared toolbelt hanging off a beam. ‘Some spanners missing, but you can borrow someone else’s if you need them. We’ll mostly be working with wiring and connections, sometimes welding to get everything together. On easier days, we paint the Jaegers once they’re all done. All the crews do. That part’s fun.’ He smiles, the warmth easing the crisscross of scar tissue over his face. 

‘Sounds good,’ Cheung agrees. The maintenance uniform slips over his clothes easily, though he’s sure his sneakers won’t make it on the cold, Shatterdome floor. Another expense. With a sigh, he clicks on the toolbelt and tightens it around his hips, feeling the weight of it and his own balance teetering together like a pendulum from side to side. 

‘Are you ready? Break ends in about five minutes, and then I’ll take you out to the Jaeger. We’re still firing the fingers to the arm right now, and then passing it off to coding for a computer check before hooking it up to the torso. We work long hours in the Shatterdome,’ warns Jian, though his tone is still gentle. ‘But we do get free food in the cafeteria. And an open port means a damn good cafeteria.’ 

Another chorus of assent goes up the room as cups of tea are passed around. Cheung is introduced to them quickly enough, but he can’t help but feel restless, his skin itchy with the urge to do something. Soon, he’ll have more work than he can count on, but there’s a plan festering in his mind that Stacker does not know and will never understand. 

If Stacker means for Cheung and his brothers to stay quiet and still as engineers in the Shatterdome, he thought wrong. This was just another learning curve, one more roadblock on their way. Their future is in a Jaeger, not a Shatterdome. They are going to fight and save themselves and this city, not sit patiently, watching incompetent pairs of pilots go forth and get everyone killed. 

For now, he’ll use this. If Stacker won’t give him a three-pilot Jaeger, Cheung will just have to make one. 

\- 

‘Passed by the butcher shop today and the old man gave us some cuts,’ mentions Hu, placing the plastic bag on the tiny square of space that is empty on their table. The apartment is suffocatingly small for three people, but they can afford the rent on this one, and Cheung’s managed to squish the table and bed to one end of the space in order to shove their cracked textbooks and notebooks in a pile for studying. 

Jin is already reclining against a pillow on the bed, his Jaeger tech textbook text propped up on his thighs as he idly chews on a pencil, while Cheung is sitting on the other end, eyes half-lidded as he scans over Dr. Caitlin Lightcap’s Drift Compatibility research reports he had printed out secretly from the J-tech department. 

Hu shrugs off his sweater and cleans up the rice cooker before turning it on. Snatching up a knife, cutting board, and rifling through the small fridge in the corner for vegetables, he eventually clears a small space on their kitchen counter to quickly chop them up. ‘Yo, bro,’ he calls. 

Cheung blinks back into awareness and puts down the stack of papers before fishing for the cuts from the bag. He snatches the knife and cutting board, nudging Hu over with his hip as he chops the meat up quickly and efficiently. 

Both meat and vegetables hiss and snap when hitting the oil in the frying pan, rousing Jin from the bed. ‘Y’know - technically, Jaegers could be way more advanced than what we have now.’ 

‘Seriously?’ says Hu, glancing back at Jin. ‘Keep talking.’ 

‘It’s the neural load,’ says Jin, frowning. He closes the text and shoves it aside, occupying himself with clearing the table for dinner. ‘I was eavesdropping on Tendo and the techs. MK IIs and MK IIIs are being built not because the pilots are better but the technology is getting sleeker and requires less neural activity because it’s more automated. When you catch a ball, it’s instinctual - cause you’ve played basketball so many times, right? They’re integrating that automaticity into the Jaegers, and replacing the empty neural space with stuff like knives and missiles.’ 

Cheung snorts as he cleans the knife and cutting board in the sink. ‘Doesn’t that mean pilots have less control over their Jaeger?’ 

Hu flips the meat, testing it with a deliberate poke, as Jin shrugs, ‘not necessarily. Certain joints _should_ lock together when doing a gesture such as a chop or punch. It’s sort of like… they’re making the Jaegers…. more human, I guess. More humanoid in their functionality, which makes it easier for pilots to control them. Anyway, my point is, with increased neural capacity, you can increase the neural connections in the Jaeger and make it do way cooler shit.’ 

‘Good news for triplets,’ murmurs Hu, sliding the stirfry onto a plate before handing off the dishes for Cheung to clean. ‘By the way, Liu-ge wants to meet with you after class tomorrow, can you pick up some stuff afterwards?’ 

‘Did he get annoyed with your sweet-talking mouth?’ teases Jin, pulling out the cutlery and placing it on the table. Hu scowls at him. 

‘We don’t need anything right now,’ says Cheung. ‘What does he want?’ 

‘Said it’s between ‘big brother and big brother’.’ 

Cheung hums, helping Hu pile everything into bowls and placing them in the centre of the table as Jin carries over the rice cooker, placing it on a heat resistant mat with the rest of the food. 

Settling down, Cheung piles his meal into his own bowl, eyes half-lidded in contemplation. ‘I’ve been reading Lightcap’s notes. They use the Pons interface as a gateway to both separate and integrate signals between two brains, sort of like a massive thalamus between the two halves of the Jaeger’s brain.’ 

‘So you wanna modify the interface then, right?’ says Jin around a mouthful of eggplant. 

‘Basically - but that’s where the difficulty comes in. It’s not like we can just slip in a third brain with a few code adjustments so that its neural signals are integrated. The neural load needs to be split three ways, or the third brain just adds on to the weight.’ 

‘You just want me to rewrite an interface from a lady with a doctorate degree,’ says Hu flatly. 

‘Yeah,’ nods Cheung. ‘Basically.’ 

‘I don’t want to miss painting day though,’ sighs Jin. ‘I like painting day. You get to paint.’ 

‘Say it again. I dare you,’ shoots Hu. 

Cheung cuts between them: ‘we’ll have free access to the computers without any supervision during that time though. We might as well take advantage.’ Hu shoves more food in his mouth to stifle his irritation as Jin pouts. ‘We’re going to create a new operating system for our own personal Jaeger while people are painting and you guys aren’t excited?’ 

‘Fine,’ relents Hu. ‘Lend me those reports after you’re done. I wanna take notes. And pick up eggs tomorrow after you see Liu-ge, bro.’ 

\- 

Under Liu’s protection, they escape streetfighting the moment they’ve signed their contracts in the Shatterdome. Cheung won’t risk any more injuries nor fatigue to his brothers - they’re doing hard manual labour with their day jobs now to keep them in shape and they have free access to spar in the Kwoon during their break times. 

It’s been three months, and Cheung scarcely sees Stacker during the time, actively keeping himself busy and out-of-the-way. The day they figure out that Mako Mori, Tokyo’s daughter, is his charge - Jin hides from his brother for three hours, shielding himself from the inevitable blowup. 

‘He’s only keeping us around because we’re good at our job,’ snaps Cheung once they’re home. ‘The latest class just got recruited for MK IIIs last week and he’s probably _waiting_ for just the right reason to replace us. Don’t give him the chance by hanging around with Mako.’ 

‘But she’s cute! And she’s smart - she knows her way around.’ Jin digs into his pocket and pulls out a crudely drawn map and neat Japanese handwriting that’s been translated into Chinese underneath. ‘So you know how they shove the scrap metal to some room to be reused and recycled? Turns out there’s a J-Tech version of that room. Mako found some of Tendo’s old Pons interface computers.’ 

Which is how Cheung eventually considers befriending the young girl as well, except he’s having an infinitely more difficult time compared to Jin and Hu. She seems to like mechanical best anyway, so Cheung gets exposure second-hand when Jin waves at him from the ground, ‘having fun on your swing, bro?’ 

Mako giggles, and Cheung twists in his harness some more for effect, calling out from above: ‘don’t be jealous! This is why electrical is better, Mako-chan!’ 

He sees her shuffle, foot twisting one way to another before she turns to Jin and say something. Jin hunches over, laughing, before he calls out, ‘Mako-chan thinks you look like a baby in one of those walker things. Good try, bro!’ 

They walk off together before Cheung manages to get the last word in, so he sighs, ignoring the echoing laughter from his crewmates, and returns to tinkering with wiring Shaolin Rogue number eight’s left elbow. 

Today, however, Cheung catches Mako in the Kwoon while he’s passing by to get to the cafeteria on his break. She’s not alone, looking even smaller when dressed in a gi, and Stacker standing opposite. They mirror each other’s movements slowly, Stacker waiting as Mako adjusts each cocked elbow, each bent knee, each pointed heel. Cheung can’t help but pause and watch, his years in the ring letting him easily track and assess the restrained power in Stacker’s form, the line of strength along his neck as he holds position and then glides to the next. 

He lingers too long for Stacker, who pins Cheung against the wall of the corridor with a gaze both intense and dark. With two quick motions, he ends the set and bows, Mako following suite. 

‘Mr. Cheung,’ he calls out, his voice echoing through the room like a rockslide. ‘Glad you could join us.’ 

‘Sir,’ Cheung straightens and salutes, chin cocked, eyes clear and fixed on Stacker, daring him to find fault in his reply. 

‘At ease.’ He gestures to Mako. ‘You’ve met Miss Mori, correct?’ 

‘Yes, sir.’ 

‘I do not presume that you will do otherwise,’ he says, and Cheung is always impressed by Stacker’s fluency in Mandarin for a British man, ‘but I expect you to treat Miss Mori as a recruit, despite our connection.’ 

Cheung blinks and nods. ‘Yes, sir.’ 

Mako is pouting - ‘you don’t - ’ she switches to Japanese and says a slew of irritated phrases, but Stacker is unruffled. 

‘Thank you, Mr. Cheung.’ He opens his mouth and seems to hesitate when: ‘keep up the good work. You’re dismissed.’ 

Cheung salutes and leaves, hurrying to the cafeteria now. When he sees Hu there, snacking while he writes notes in the margins of Lightcap’s report, he joins him. ‘Mako-chan makes him a nice person, I’m almost impressed.’ 

‘You guys are basically the exact same people, y’know,’ snorts Hu, nibbling on a steamed bun as he highlights a phrase on the report, not bothering to look up at him. ‘The moment family comes around, you’re both gross, defensive saps.’ 

‘Fuck off,’ says Cheung, ‘I wouldn’t sign my only set of triplets in - what? - the entire world to engineering.’ 

‘You think he knows we sneak around the Shatterdome planning our Jaeger, though?’ This time Hu is watching him, curious. 

‘No way - he’s too much of a stickler for rules, he’d probably throw fit and kick us off-base,’ dismisses Cheung quickly, but the anxiety still sticks. ‘We’re just some kids in maintenance crews.’ 

‘But we’re the only triplets with Jaeger pilot training,’ points out his brother. ‘He hasn’t let us out of his sight yet. He kept us signed on. It’s been three months and he hasn’t called us to his office once.’ 

‘Maybe cause we’re great workers.’ Cheung pushes his tray away, looking at Hu with brows furrowed. ‘Why are you suddenly devil’s advocate?’ 

‘I’m not, brother. Maybe if you - just - I don’t know… calmed your shit,’ says Hu, ‘you might realize that Stacker could even help us if we asked.’ 

‘Hu,’ starts Cheung, voice deceptively calm, ‘we did ask. We asked three months ago, and he threw it back in our face and signed us up for thankless jobs building and repairing machines that we should be piloting. That asshole would sooner dump us in Victoria Harbor than help us out, alright? So just keep your head down and play it safe.’ 

Hu inhales sharply as if he has something else to say but remains silent; instead, he turns back to his report, teeth clenched tight around the highlighter in his mouth. With a sigh, Cheung eats his food in silence, watching the tension in his brother’s shoulders. Though Hu disagrees, Cheung is confident he’s right. Stacker only kept them for their supposed skillset around engineering. The moment the newest class of recruits comes in, Cheung and his brothers will be out of a job, and he only has about a year and a half to prove to Stacker that they’re here to stay. To be pilots. 

\- 

Hu tells him Liu-ge will meet Cheung at the harbor down south of the base, so Cheung drops by the convenience store and buys two steamed buns before taking the scenic route down the long streets of Tsim Sha Tsui. The oncoming evening signals a livelier atmosphere in the neighborhood, its wretchedness providing its own energy as foodcarts are pushed around and treats are called out, street kids running between alleyways and the bustle of families as they filed into restaurants for dinner together - all five, eight, ten, fifteen of them. The sky is streaked purple now, and the wires strung between the packed buildings make Cheung’s neck tingle as if the electricity is pulsing through his own veins. 

He reaches the harbour with one untouched bun, listening for the telltale rumble of a motorcycle in the vicinity. The water is painted in violets and blues, waves lapping with each soft exhale of the ocean. Boats bob on the surface, military and fishing vessels converging, both reminiscent of toys on the softly rocking surface of the sea. 

Cheung waits, swinging the bun in his hand and fingering the cash in his pocket, reciting the grocery list in his head: eggs, radishes, celery, and milk. Hu would murder him if he forgot. On his third run-through, Liu rumbles onto the street, slowing his bike to a crawl as he stops in front of Cheung. 

‘Dai lo,’ nods Cheung, offering him the bun. Liu snorts but rips the packaging and inhales it. He’s looking better these days. Something about negotiations and a woman in his life turning Liu into someone much less haggard and stressed these days as he runs most of his turf operations without opposition. 

‘You got my message then. Hop on,’ smiles Liu, offering him the second helmet. ‘I have a surprise for you.’ 

‘Thank you,’ says Cheung, surprised, and takes the helmet, slipping it on and swinging his leg over the bike behind Liu, holding to the back handle as Liu begins to drive. They coast through the labyrinthine mess of Tsam Sha Tsui and enter the now impoverished harbor side of Kowloon, passing the kaiju’s bones that have been swallowed up by the residents and the resulting temple that has sprouted in its skull with its many flickering flames and precious offerings glinting between its open maw. 

Liu takes him down a wide highway, close to the coast where the seagulls wheel down from the sky to prop themselves on the chainlink fence that separates road from sea. Cheung holds on, feels the wind whip at his clothes, his vision clear behind the helmet visor though the salt spray of the sea would’ve blinded him. 

The motorcycle slows and makes a few turns into a neighborhood Cheung recognizes as an extension of Liu’s turf, the familiar names of signs dotting the stores, a few waves to the familiar rumbling motorcycle as it cuts through long alleyways and crawls through the streets. Finally, they make it to a string of warehouses pressed together, surrounded by other bikes. 

‘Your present,’ announces Liu proudly, pulling off his helmet once they’ve pulled up next to the garage door of the warehouse. Cheung won’t admit aloud that he’s suspicious, but sometimes Liu’s lifestyle worries Cheung though it’s none of his business. With a breath, he grabs the handle of the garage door and pulls upwards, revealing a well-lit inside that is piled high with - 

‘Holy shit, where - ’ Cheung stares at the trashed Jaeger parts piled high inside. There’s a right arm, and a right leg. No helmet, but a crushed torso with the nuclear core removed. ‘Where did you find this?’ 

‘Some of the streetkids were looking for scrap metal to sell,’ says Liu, ‘and they stumbled on a couple treats down by Junk Bay, so I brought my boys in to bring in the biggest, nicest pieces they could scavenge, left the rest for the kids. Is it useful?’ 

Cheung nods dumbly. ‘it might be. I’m not sure.’ He runs a hand down the thumb of the arm leaning against a crate. It’s as thick as his torso and as long as his leg. Technologically, it screams MK I or maybe an early version of the MK II, but to have almost full limbs to at least screw around with outside of the Shatterdome is a godsend. 

Liu circles the warehouse: ‘well, even if it’s not that great for you guys, I can sell it off for a nice price and lend you a cut. Jaeger tech is confidential as hell, so this is technically a goldmine.’ 

Glancing over, Cheung frowns. ‘If you need the money, sell it.’ 

Except Liu won’t seem to have any of that. ‘No. It’s a present. Be a good little brother and accept.’ He shakes his head with muffled laughter. ‘Hu and Jin always say you’re a hardass, y’know.’ 

He snorts. Of course they would. Turning back to the Jaeger parts, he begins climbing up the crates, inspecting them from a different angle. There’s no rust because Jaegers have been proofed against the ocean, but Cheung would need tools to see if the wiring is still intact within. Tools he knows Liu has in storage. He grins, bouncing down from the crate to the floor, and bows. 

‘This is - this is way more than I could have expected. Thank you, dai lo.’ 

Liu seems pleased. ‘Feel free to bring your brothers round here to practice or whatever. Call me up and I’ll have you all here whenever you’re ready.’ 

\- 

When Cheung tells them, Jin almost sprints to the store to use their phone. 

It’s enough for Cheung to grab him in a headlock and for Hu to plant his ass on Jin’s knees, holding him down as they laugh. ‘Look, let’s go over there this weekend, and then the week after is painting week so we’ll work on the Pons interface for ourselves, and it’ll be fine. We’re gonna have a Jaeger, bro.’ 

Jin stares up at him, eyes glittering, and for one panicked moment Cheung thinks he’s going to cry. It passes as quick as it comes, Jin blinking the moisture away and grinning, his cheeks flushed with excitement. ‘Yeah, we are.’ 

Except the laughter doesn’t last long when Hu tackles Cheung and rolls him off the cot to the ground, ‘but where are my groceries, you prick - ’ 

‘Jin, help!’ he calls, but Jin crosses his legs and props his chin in his hand. 

‘No, I think I’m good.’ 

\- 

It’s a steady routine for them - to ride up to the warehouse and tinker with the wiring, hypothesize where to add certain joints for a third brain to handle. How to make an arm more complex, how to create a fully-fledged MK III for three pilots. 

Back at the Shatterdome, they figure out how to sneak off base with Mako and Wei helping them, and decide to skip out on the ride back in the evenings on the truck to work long hours in the trash J-tech room, booting up Tendo’s old computers and reviewing the Pons interface by Dr. Lightcap. 

A month passes, another month, maybe two or three more. Cheung learns to code as much as he can to help, and tries to think beyond what he has seen when it comes to mechanical aspect. He chases his brothers frantically wherever they go with their ideas, watching an interface slowly shape together, despite roadblocks and masses of textbooks and eavesdropping on various crews and departments. 

It’s happening, slowly but surely. Cheung knows it. He can feel the progress at his fingertips and wants to laugh at Stacker’s face, show him who was wrong and who was right. How dare he separate them when he could see all that they could accomplish on their own. 

Except Stacker doesn’t bother him, nor his brothers, and something about Hu’s words stick close to him and he can’t shake it off. 

Cheung likes to think they’re flying under the radar and Stacker is unaware of their late night shenanigans in the J-tech trash room with the holograms projecting three brains instead of two, hypothetical drive suit wires clicking into place along the spine to tap into the dorsal and ventral streams of nerve signals between pilot and Jaeger, pilot and pilot. 

Mako gets smarter and older alongside them, now carrying a little notebook and pen, practicing her hanzi as she writes long lists of anatomical parts of both a human and a Jaeger. ‘Gonna be a pilot,’ she promises Cheung when he asks her what she’s scribbling. 

It’s going too well. Something has to fuck up. Something has to go wrong, because the world is never _nice_ to Cheung, and he has had to claw himself out of desperate circumstances over and over again. Why would this be any different? Why would this be the one time the universe cooperates with him and his brothers? 

He won’t blame it on his skepticism when everything does go wrong a month and a half later. 

They’d been working on the Pons interface OS, slowly shaping it by comparing Dr. Lightcaps notes, Tendo’s notes, and whatever else Mako liked to pilfer from wherever she went. Apparently being the Marshall’s daughter gives you privileged access to a lot of things in the Shatterdome. 

Eventually, at two in the morning, Hu had stretched his arms over his head and said, ‘fuck it - I can’t even read this code anymore.’ 

‘Yeah, me neither,’ admits Cheung, and they leave it at that. Jin takes care to save it on their hard drive, then to back it up on another one in the trash room, and then on two USB sticks - one for Cheung, the other for Hu, because Jin misplaces things like it’s a super power. 

The next morning they come in as usual for work. Cheung repairs the crushed arm of Shaolin Rogue number three, waving at Xiang and Zhu when they descend from the cockpit. So far, they have the best record amongst the pilots, and Cheung wouldn’t doubt that. Their fight in the Kwoon is still burned in his psyche with its artistry and smoothness almost a year later. 

Nothing is off. Nothing signals that when they pass by the J-tech trash room, it’s going to be locked and a keypad newly installed. That staff will be lugging the trash out of the room by the cartful, intent on recycling. That all the resources and the two hard drives they’ve saved their OS on are being toted away to the garbage heap and away from their fingertips. 

‘it’s _him_ ,’ snarls Cheung. ‘He _knows_.’ 

‘Cheung - don’t do anything yet - ’ warns Hu, voice getting louder to overwhelm the white noise of rage filling Cheung’s skull. ‘We still have the USB sticks, we still have all our data.’ 

‘But they took all the computers and hard drives and projectors,’ concludes Jin. ‘What’s the point of a USB stick if there’s nothing to connect to, bro?’ 

‘There’s still,’ flounders Hu, ‘there’s still...’ 

‘Can’t access the actual J-tech department and commandeer a desk, Hu, it’s not going to work.’ Cheung takes a deep breath, then another. ‘I’ll talk to him. I’ll ask for something.’ 

He doesn’t know what, can’t seem to think of any particular reason for Stacker to even bother clearing him through security much less actually opening his office door for Cheung - who has been a silent, digging thorn in his side since the day they met. 

The security guard scans his ID card, check his face, and lets him through anyway. The steps are hollow, echoing through the corridor, reverberating back into his ears with a ring of despair. How long had Stacker known? What tipped him off? Was it security footage of them sneaking through the dark off the base or the missing key cards off Tendo’s desk? Which part was it and when and did Cheung have any hope of swaying Stacker at this point? 

Hands empty of answers, Cheung steels himself and presses the buzzer, waiting. A voice crackles through: ‘Come in.’ 

The handle turns easily, the door giving way under a gentle push, and Cheung is met with the soft lapping of water, the familiar scent of the ocean permeating the air and making his stomach clench with the memory of home. 

As he suspected, the office is not all metal floor. The runway slices between two pools of ocean water welling up from the coastline. The wide windows at the other end of the office drapes the room in sunlight, a sparkling reflection from the water couple with the gentle sound of rushing waves. Altogether, it knits a feeling of peace that clashes cacophonously with the fury writhing within Cheung’s belly. 

He steps inside, salutes, looking at Stacker’s form seated at the table, a book of some language or another he doesn’t recognize in the man’s hands. 

‘Mr. Cheung,’ he greets. ‘At ease. You may sit.’ 

Cheung doesn’t. He stands very still in front of the man, a respectful distance of a meter and a half between them, but he doesn’t relent. To his credit, Stacker meets his gaze, his expression expectant. ‘Why are you here?’ 

It takes all of Cheung’s self-control to not respond with accusations and anger, the urge to yell his throat raw clawing up his esophagus. ‘I would like access to J-tech computers, hologram projectors, and data processors, as well as a Pons interface setup for private use between my brothers and I.’ 

‘And what would motivate me to do that?’ asks Stacker. He folds his hands on his desk, tilting his head. ‘You’ve been under surveillance for the past few months, Mr. Cheung. You and your brothers have violated dozens of rules, regulations, and laws in your egotistical drive for self-satisfaction, not to mention the cooperation you’ve gotten from other crew members and Miss Mori.’ 

His temper flares. Again. Cheung exhales noisily. ‘We have been progressing an interface for three pilots in a Jaeger.’ 

‘I’m sure you have, but it certainly wasn’t there when I walked into that room yesterday. Nor any other day for that matter.’ Stacker’s voice remains calm and patient, but the steel of it cuts at Cheung, hits bone, leaves him bleeding and trying not to show it. 

‘I can - I can show you,’ he manages through gritted teeth. ‘Only if I am able to access to all that I have requested.’ 

‘Might I remind you that you are in no position to be negotiating with your superior officer, Mr. Cheung.’ In a smooth motion, Stacker leans back in his chair, still straight-backed with stiff shoulders, but his eyes boring holes into Cheung. ‘How far and how hard will you fight for this? It’s been almost a year since your reassignment.’ 

Cheung meets the stare, bares his teeth, makes sure to enunciate slowly and clearly for Stacker to understand: ‘I will die trying for this.’ 

‘For what?’ Stacker sounds less curious and more enraged, his fury seeping into his tones. ‘For your own reckless pride?’ 

Taken aback, Cheung snarls out: ‘This isn’t for _me_.’ 

It makes Stacker pause, his mouth open around words unsaid, before: ‘So you think putting them in a Jaeger is the best choice?’ 

‘Because when we die,’ replies Cheung evenly, ‘we’ll all die together, and I will be able to protect them till the very end.’ 

Stacker stands up, his height and authority domineering Cheung, but Stacker isn’t here to tower over him this time. He walks around his desk, following the long catwalk between the pools of sea water at either side. Even the man’s silhouette is cut and precise, military to the finest degree. Cheung watches the long line of the man’s spine, the tension strung tight between his shoulders, and waits, but all he receives is a: ‘Your request has been rejected. You are dismissed. Report to me in a week on your new reassignment.’ 

Cheung should’ve expected it. It doesn’t hurt any less. 

With nothing left to lose, Cheung explodes: ‘Why? _Why_ won’t you at least try? Why are you so scared of this?’ He yells and the sound of his despair sends ripples over the pools of water in the office. ‘We can do it so why won’t you fucking trust me!’ 

‘You are dismissed!’ thunders Stacker, half-turning, but even with one eye on him, the anger and authority punches obedience into Cheung’s gut and he takes a step back. Another. 

‘Yes, sir,’ he says, fury coursing in his veins, as he salutes and steps out of the office. 

\- 

Hu doesn’t understand why Stacker has postponed their punishment for a week: ‘last time, it was the next sentence out of his mouth. Pre-planned and everything,’ but Cheung doesn’t have the energy to decipher the man’s motivations as he tries to not break everything in his sight. 

By the second day, Cheung feels more in control of his body and temper; however, Mako disappears from the Shatterdome and takes Stacker along with her. 

The replacement commanding officer for the Shatterdome is a white man that Cheung only later discovers isn’t American. He’s Australian and carries the same heavy weight on his shoulders that Stacker does, except his kid is a cocky brat. Thankfully, he keeps away from Cheung and his brothers after they shoot him murderous glares while he sprinted around the Shatterdome shouting in his incomprehensible English. 

The J-tech trash room gets renovated during that time for K-science. Chalkboards and gleaming hologram projectors are hauled inside, as well as long metal tables and metres of hose. Tendo decides to keep his defunct equipment shoved in a corner of LOCCENT even if he complains about the lack of floorspace and Cheung itches to steal it. 

He doesn’t, of course, because Mako took all her pilfered ID cards with her and who knows when she’ll come back. It makes Jin sulk at home, bottom lip jutting out as he recounts his days and mentions ‘y’know, Mako _hates_ welding cause it’s too hot’ and Cheung doesn’t bother to point out that his brother sounds like he’s just lost his best friend - even if she is tiny and twelve years old. 

They continue through the week and Cheung wonders if this is going to be his life now - wake up, wire and repair another Jaeger, wave to the pilots, eat, go home. Rinse and repeat. Except his job is a mental torture as he’s forced to look at these machines through a dirty windowpane of desire, blurred and gray along the edges where Cheung just _wants_. Wants to be a pilot and wants to stand in the cockpit and to keep his brothers close and forever within him. 

In the morning a week after his meeting with Stacker, Cheung leaves the USB stick with the half-finished OS interface on the table before he leaves. Hu gives him a funny look but stays mercifully silent, and Jin sticks close to his side, shoulder bumping occasionally against his. 

They’re not called into Stacker’s office until half an hour before their lunch break. Wei drives into the Shatterdome, calling their names as she passes their respective maintenance crews. This time they go together, which somehow is a comfort for Cheung. Over the last few days, he had thought about the potential reassignments - to send them off to the actual factory up north from the Shatterdome, or to send them to the military and make them the government’s responsibility completely, or to simply drop them from the program entirely. At least they’ll go together, hopes Cheung. At least Stacker will have the human decency to send them away with each other. 

They bypass the office altogether. Wei tosses them a grin over a shoulder and hits the button for the elevator at the end of the hall. 

‘That’s a terrible sign,’ says Jin, cringing. ‘Wei only smiles when we have to repair - like - crushed nuclear cores or cockpits.’ 

He wheedles her for information as they climb the levels, but she only kicks him in the shin and tells him to back off. ‘You’ll see soon enough, yeah?’ 

They find themselves in LOCCENT instead, and Stacker is nowhere in sight but the Australian officer is there with a woman beside him, her blonde hair brushed back into a high ponytail. Tendo is chatting with her excitedly, grand hand gestures threatening to knock a passerby over should they stray too close. 

She’s familiar to Cheung in some vague way that all white faces are but he struggles to put a name to her until the Australian says in his stilted English: ‘Mr. Cheung, Hu, Jin.’ 

They salute and stand at attention, waiting. 

‘At ease.’ He half-turns and gestures to the woman beside him. ‘Let me introduce you to Dr. Caitlin Lightcap.’ 

Her face and the ID card photocopy attached to her reports slide together and click, and Cheung’s eyes widen, taking her in. She’s older - older than Stacker and the Australian, no doubt, but her eyes are bright with excitement as she smiles and moves to shake their hands. 

‘Hi, hello, you’re the triplets,’ she says, smiling wide. ‘I received your OS interface last week and I just - needed to fly over here because it was - oh. We need to talk about this. We really do. I didn’t think it was possible, you know? I - I’m sorry, I only know English, but I hope we can work together.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ cuts in Hu smoothly, but his face is still bewildered. Cheung flicks his gaze upwards to the Australian, who remains as calm and unruffled as ever. He knew she was coming. He fucking _knew_. 

‘Right, well - I’ve already been tinkering with the code, I hope you don’t mind, do you want to look at it? Mr. Choi, please, lead us,’ she says, turning back to the man, her voice full and bright, joyous in it’s scientific zeal. 

She moves nimbly around the wires and desks and gestures to the holographic images of three brains in a pyramid formation, hypothetically connected to each other in a Drift state via fine blue lines of light between the thalamus, midbrain and frontal lobe. ‘The code was very unique, you know - you didn’t take any shortcuts like I did. Fascinating. I had to reread it over and over again.’ She makes a muffled noise as she types into a keyboard, changing the hologram so that the brains tip back and the midbrain is exposed. ‘You wanted to redirect the dorsal and ventral streams through a drift suit-type thalamus function, and then pass it along three ways to the midbrains to be processed via your own thalamus, which cuts down the neural load, but increases the lag time between responses and reactions.’ 

‘Yeah we, ah, haven’t quite figured that out yet,’ tries Hu. ‘We didn’t have any technology at the time or drift suit practice. It’s all hypothetical.’ 

‘Excellent, excellent,’ murmurs Dr. Lightcap to herself. She straightens and shoots a hard look at the Australian across the room. ‘Sergeant Hansen, I have your permission to try these boys out in a cockpit, don’t I?’ 

His face crumples as if he’d rather say no and gives a long-suffering sigh. ‘Yes, you do, Doctor.’ 

She rounds on them, her presence overwhelming though Cheung easily towers over her. Her grin is wide and bright. ‘Boys, _boys_ \- you know what happens if we get this right? We can make more complex machines, we can have quadruplets in Jaegers, we can even use the technology to narrow down piloting to a single person. This is a step. A real step. So, I do hope you have nothing planned for the next month.’ 

Dr. Lightcap then turns her attention to Tendo, face smoothing out to grave seriousness. ‘I sincerely hope to do good work with you, Mr. Choi. As head of LOCCENT, I have been told you’re excellent with J-tech. To new beginnings and future friendships.’ She sticks out her hand and Tendo seems bewildered to have met someone as full of words and energy as himself. He shakes it, blinking, and his hand is abruptly dropped when she turns back to the computer. ‘Bring up some stools, boys, we’re going to code a little first. I want you to look at my adjustments.’ 

‘Yes, ma’am,’ replies Hu, as Cheung and Jin pick up some abandoned chairs from around the command center to drag over to the desk. From behind them, Sergeant Hansen clears his throat. 

‘You’ve been reassigned from engineering to Jaeger pilot recruits. Report to Tendo for new ID cards.’ 

Cheung stands up quickly, his brothers following suit and saluting the man. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ 

‘Right. Well. Good luck,’ he says, and strides out. 

\- 

Everything comes to fruition on a dreary Sunday morning, Cheung sprawled out on a couch with Jin tucked in close next to him. Hu is slumped over a table, his shoulders rising and falling with each deep, even breath as the computer screen flashes in front of him. 

With a muffled groan, Dr. Lightcap props herself up from the cot perpendicular to the couch and glares at the time she reads on her watch. ‘Is it done yet? It’s awful - we’re in 2017 and still have to wait for computers to do things. _This_ is the future?’ 

‘I’ll make coffee,’ offers Cheung. He gently nudges Jin awake and slides away from him, letting the other shiver and stretch back into awareness. They’ve commandeered the electrical engineering’s break room under Stacker’s orders once he had returned from his one month trip to somewhere, and Cheung never understood the joys of coffee until he had begun drinking it on the regular somewhere between month two and three of The Tri-Sun Horizon Project, as Dr. Lightcap had gleefully named it with the help of Jin and a limited selection of coloured pens. 

With the flush of water in the sink, Hu groans and rubs at his head, feeling the fuzz growing back in before he props his chin on the table, eyes on the laptop screen. They had been on a caffeine high the night before, Dr. Lightcap and Hu following a string of a code while Jin and Cheung worked on another computer to write its complement. They switched computers soon after and proofread each others’ code before feeding it into a hypothetical drift compatibility program designed by Tendo based off the data from Shaolin Rogue’s results. And then they had collapsed, waiting for Tendo’s program to run. 

Cheung checks the time on the coffee maker - it’s been four hours since they had passed out. He pours the grounds in, glancing over at the blinking computer screen before Hu does. ‘Look at it, at least.’ 

‘S’gonna just say forty seven or thirty six or sixty eight or some shit as usual,’ he whines, but jiggles the mouse anyway, waiting for the screen to load. It takes an entire minute longer than usual for Hu to type in the correct password, then he waits as he pulls up Tendo’s program and the data result window. 

‘Oh fuck.’ 

Dr. Lightcap perks up from her cot, draping the blanket around her shoulders in a makeshift shawl as she huddles over Hu’s shoulder and reads the results. ‘Oh fuck it is. Oh wow - holy fuck. Oh. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ Her voice is climbing higher and higher. ‘Oh.’ 

‘Cheung, Jin,’ says Hu, his voice a little pitched. ‘It says ninety seven. It says drift compatibility between three pilots is ninety fucking seven.’ 

Cheung stares for a long time at the bottom of his coffee mug, willing for the caffeine to appear there already before he jerks his head up as the information filters through. ‘Oh. Wow.’ He blinks, except his throat is too tight to say anything more. His stomach tightens, flips, and excitement starts to bubble up in his chest. Jin whoops from the couch, rubbing his eyes and stumbling over the screen, whistling low as he reads the the numbers. 

‘So, that actually worked,’ he concludes, and he laughs, as if the joy in his chest can’t be contained. Dr. Lightcap laughs in turn, both of them facing each other, mouths pulled wide, teeth on display. ‘We did it!’ she announces, and he claps his hands. ‘Hell yeah, we did. C’mon, Hu, get excited!’ 

Hu receives a smack to the shoulder and he stands up. ‘I am excited! I am - just. In shock.’ 

Cheung sympathizes, unable to even look at the screen. At his elbow, the coffee machine beeps, bringing him back from his reverie with the solid reminder of real life. He lifts his mug, feels the heft and weight of it, and laughs - breathless and to himself. ‘Shit. We did it.’ 

Dr. Lightcap is already talking a mile a minute as she starts copying the code and sending them off to the real Tendo. ‘ - gonna get you guys in real drift suits, Stacker has to take this data - er, Marshall Pentecost. And the engineering team should be done with the modifications by the end of the day, right? Even if it _is_ a Sunday cause, gosh, how does he say it - ‘we’re fighting a _war_ , ladies and gentlemen’ - ’ Her atrocious imitation of Stacker has Hu folded over the table in muffled laughter. 

Within the hour, they drink coffee, clean up, and storm upstairs to LOCCENT to raise hell. 

\- 

Everything is a little muffled, his line of sight slightly blurry, the smell of metal, oil, and sea salt heavy in his nose. Cheung feels like he’s dreaming, except his body is weighted and pinned, like they’ve lined heavy weights all along his legs and arms. He can still breathe easy though - the oxygen passing into his lungs and the carbon dioxide immediately filtered through the slits at the sides of his helmet. 

The world around them is gray and white, lined with metal plates and lights, a giant metal hand descending from the heavens to clasp onto the back of a metal suit to his left, another to his right. He can’t feel the claws in his own back, but he knows they’re there. Inside, there are only his thoughts to occupy him, blending in with the humming of the engine of the pod in neutral. 

‘Initiating drift,’ calls out Tendo’s voice, but it seems distant and echoes everywhere around Cheung. He doesn’t respond, only waits, relaxing in his suit where it’s pinned him down. ‘Don’t chase the RABIT, boys,’ he calls out, the words echoing and bouncing back, meaning nothing in the stifled silence of the pod and the suit. Cheung focuses on his inhale, the resulting exhale, the purse of his mouth, the clenching of his throat as he swallows in preparation. ‘In four, three, two, one…’ 

The first feeling is vertigo - as if Cheung has just been dropped from the roof of a skyscraper into the sea below, his stomach now resting in his throat and he can’t _breathe_. His eyes are open, or maybe they’re clenched tight, he can’t tell - only that he’s seeing things now, the flash of a building, cracked sidewalks, weeds sprouting along cracks in the pavement. 

He sees his life at different angles, from Jin’s upturned gaze as the fighter jets scream through the sky. The tilt of Hu’s head when he buries his face into their mother’s warm stomach. Oh - their mother. The sharp lash of emotion digging deep from Jin when news comes in that _Today_ , _a man identified as Wei Ying-Chieh died on the interstate in a pile up_. 

Hu’s hands after picking fights with the kids at school. Mother’s hands on Jin, restraining and soothing him. Long fingers, cuts, bandages. Bruises. School. Other kids and their stone faces. Scraped knees. Jin finding a basketball - _he lied; said he found it behind school_ \- in an alleyway close to the hospital where dad’s body had been taken. 

The creases in Mother’s brow, the twist of her mouth, the timbre of her voice. Boxes. Moving. Signs pointing to Shanghai passing in the wrong direction as Hu feels his lashes catch against the glass when he presses his face against the window of the train. A metropolis opening up before them, spreading vast beneath the rails of the train, dipped in orange and red from the sun that blazes against the horizon of the coastline. Jin’s fascination. Jin’s fear. The slide of Cheung’s - _your_ \- palm against his neck as he - _you_ \- pulled him close. 

Hu picks fights at the new school, which looks exactly the same as the old school except his dirty Shanghainese doesn’t fit here, doesn’t belong. Mother’s fingers on his cheek and hands. Grandmother’s cool palm against his forehead, her remedies bitter on his tongue. Mother’s hands again - clammy with sweat. smelling of disease. Jin’s tears are hot against his cheeks. Poor people get sick and poor people die, rationalizes Hu as the front of his shirt is soaked by the sea-salt water Jin has brought within him from Shanghai. 

The streets. Long. Hard against their feet. Grandmother’s empty purse and empty mouth and empty stomach. Responsibility etched into the lines of Hu’s face, of Jin’s hands. The line of big brother’s shoulders - _your shoulders_ \- when he promises to fend for them. But poor people get sick and poor people die, and this fact is doubly true when one has wrinkles threaded with age along their skin. 

The rest. The rest Cheung knows because he was there with them for every step. The rest is scavenging and the rest is fighting and the rest is clawing out of this pit that they’ve ended up in. The rest - the rest - 

The rest is love. An explosion of it. Whiting out the blue-cast memories to the sea as Cheung feels warmth wrap around his bones, following the lines of his veins, the arc of his spine, the curve of tendon, muscle, sinew, bone. The overwhelming capacity of it - how it drowns him by filling up his lungs and how it fills him, making its home in Cheung’s stomach. The aching, desperate urge to send their unconditional love across - how his brothers press and press it against Cheung, and he might be laughing, crying, it’s hard to tell when each breath he takes, he can feel the affection wrapping him, holding him close. 

It heaves up like a tidal wave and crashes down once, twice - from each brother - before the drift eases and settles, sated with memories and emotion, swimming just under the surface as Cheung’s brain clears and he hesitantly blinks open his eyes, tears streaked down his cheeks for the first time in a long time, an ache in his chest. 

Around him, the pod is still metallic, with its humming engine and row of lights strung around, a control panel hooked to a screen showing the most basic of logistics. He can read the time, the strength of the connection between the pod and LOCCENT, the digitized view of the outside world where people are walking along the hallway around the practice pod room. In the middle of the screen is a flashing phrase in green: _Drift Compatibility: at 97%_ just as predicted. 

Cheung shivers, and says _Hu_ , _Jin_ , in his head. Not even a second later, Hu and Jin reply _big brother_ back at him - soft and shuddering and affectionate. 

Tendo’s voice filters through: ‘feeling alright there? The connection is looking solid. I’ll draw up a kaiju kill simulation program for you guys for tomorrow. For now, let’s get you disconnected - congratulations.’ 

‘Thank you,’ says Cheung, raw and wrecked. ‘Dr. Lightcap - thank you.’ 

Her voice filters through - gentle, and he remembers she’s done this too. Drifted. ‘We’re not done yet, so you guys better come back quick before I get started on my own.’ 

‘Alright.’ He takes a breath. _Thank you_. 

_You don’t have to say it, bro_ calls out Jin. _We can feel it just fine_. 

\- 

‘Thirty drops, thirty kills,’ announces Tendo over the intercom while hypothetical helicopters come over to pick the Jaeger up in the screen. ‘Drift compatibility still holding steady. You guys are getting faster too - this one was a three hour kill.’ 

‘I increased the neural load this time, and it seems to have distributed between the three of you just fine, considering your performance,’ says Dr. Lightcap. ‘I won’t push you three to the maximum, but quite a lot of complexity can be added to your Jaeger.’ 

Jin makes a whooping noise to Cheung’s left. ‘I want buzzsaws! And missiles! And a sword! And six arms - two for each of us.’ 

Dr. Lightcap’s laugh filters through until it’s cut abruptly by the mic in the LOCCENT switching off. A new voice filters in this time - low and authoritative. ‘Mr. Cheung, Hu, Jin - report to my office once you are done here.’ 

Cheung pauses for just a beat before he replies, ‘yes, sir.’ 

Dr. Lightcap had explained it all while Stacker had been away and their coding all-nighters had just begun: ‘he sent me a hard drive by express, stamped confidential with a UN sticker on it, and a letter that said ‘does this work?’.’ She flutters her hands over her keyboard. ‘I thought the UN sent me a virus, to be honest. And then I opened it and it looked like my drift program and I almost called him and said, of course it works, what program do you think you’ve been using? Honestly. 

‘Then I had to take a closer look, because Mr. Hu here added some string here and there that completely changed how to direct the receptors between Jaeger and pilot, rerouting it to a third party. It was the most fascinating thing, and I could tell it was unfinished and I wanted to know what it would look like once it was done. It was exciting.’ 

‘That’s when you booked a flight to Hong Kong from Vancouver,’ finishes Jin, brow furrowed as he looks at Cheung. ‘He sent it.’ 

Once Stacker had returned to the Shatterdome, they only saw each other through secondhand exposure via Dr. Lightcap making various requests for this computer, this projector, a room, a space, an entire break room and reserving the pod for entire days to drive the triplets to their knees through various simulations. 

Still, Cheung imagines something close to an uneasy peace has settled between them. Stacker does not interfere with their progress, does not ask for any particular result or report. If he has questions, he calls in Tendo and Dr. Lightcap, skirting around Cheung entirely as if to leave him alone. Cheung doesn’t blame him - every time they meet, they’ve both flown off the handle. 

Hu calls it ‘same species repugnance’ and sometimes Jin throws in his agreement before ducking away with Mako, teaching her tricks with Jaeger parts the same way he had amused the street kids back at their old, old, old apartment from a lifetime ago. Cheung isn’t sure if he respects Stacker these days, but he recognizes the silent help whenever he accedes to Dr. Lightcap’s requests, the eagerness when he calls for meetings in the LOCCENT every week, listening to the data as best as he can with his limited knowledge, the approval when a pad of blueprint paper ends up on Hu’s desk in the designated Tri-Sun Horizon break room with a post-it note that neatly says: _use it well_. 

Maybe Stacker trusts in Cheung now, and maybe Cheung can return the sentiment. 

Once they’re out of their drift suits, they shower and dress and head down the now-familiar pathways through the Shatterdome to Stacker’s office. 

‘Try not to yell at him this time,’ mentions Hu casually when Jin presses the buzzer. Cheung promptly flips him off and waits to turn the wheel on the door. ‘Come in,’ calls Stacker. The door opens with the same ease as it always has, and the water with the catwalk setup hasn’t changed. Stacker is seated at his desk, folders strewn over it and a pen in his hands as he reviews a report stamped by K-Science. 

They line up in front of his desk, Cheung in the middle as always with his brothers flanking him, and salute. 

‘At ease.’ Stacker doesn’t offer them a seat because he knows Cheung won’t take it. ‘Your progress as the first and only three-pilot team has been noted. It’s extremely promising.’ 

‘Thank you, sir,’ says Hu. 

Stacker seems to struggle with his next sentence, mouth in a tight line as he watches them. ‘I would have you all in a Jaeger, but a MK II isn’t sufficient, and MK IIIs just went into production.’ 

No, thinks Cheung. Don’t do this. Not now. 

With a breath, the man continues: ‘Dr. Lightcap has shown me your blueprints, and I would have it as the next generation. As a MK IV Jaeger. Though the initial six arm draft is a bit… ambitious.’ 

Jin fidgets next to him, but doesn’t say a word. Cheung waits, and hopes, and watches. 

‘I am assigning you a maintenance and engineering crew. You will fully supervise the planning and construction of a MK IV Jaeger in the Hong Kong Shatterdome. This is confidential and you will submit a report to my desk every Monday, without fail, or you will be taken off this project. I expect you will not slack off on your training as Jaeger pilots, and you will set an example for the other recruits in this Shatterdome.’ By which he means Mako, and Jin fidgets again. ‘Mr. Choi will provide you with the rest of the details. You are dismissed.’ 

Cheung watches for a long moment, and then bows at the waist, unashamed, before saluting him. ‘Thank you, sir.’ His brothers are staring at him before the also bow quickly and give the requisite salute. 

When they walk out of the office, Hu snorts. ‘You’re smiling.’ 

Cheung bites the inside of his cheek and controls his face. ‘Don’t you have a Jaeger to draw?’ 

\- 

It takes another year and a half, which is considered fast when it comes to building Jaegers, but the time stretches out, spreads Cheung and his brothers thin, the aching want for a finished robot growing each and every passing month. 

Her maintenance crew isn’t a joke, and Wei commandeers them with an hard voice and iron strength, spinning her spanner in contemplation when she stands back and barks out orders. At first, Jin had been horrified that she was the supervisor commanding their crew, but Cheung reassured him that they have semi-pilot status now. Jin could probably hide without any repercussions. 

Hu loves the coding and drafting, testing out each limb separately with his own assistants, strolling along the catwalks with a laptop, comparing coded results with real ones as they fit against each other. Each limb connected with its own set of neurons attached to the spine of their Jaeger, stacking upwards to a Conn-Pod that Jin thought was really cute but they hadn’t assembled yet. 

One night, Jin rips a piece from the drafting pad of Hu’s desk and comes over with his neat handwriting and neater design for a rather ostentatious pilot suit. The chest plate is much wider with a dragon face hastily sketched over it, the back pieces a smooth, curving piece like an arrow pointing to their asses, and the elbows have spikes on them. 

‘Isn’t it great?’ exclaims Jin. Hu is appalled. Cheung thinks it’s awful and immediately sends it over to engineering to be built. 

The logo sticks - a proud, creeping dragon, teeth and tongue out to rip the opposition apart. Stacker pointedly fails to comment on it when he receives the designs and focuses on the interlocking arm and leg pieces. ‘Will it restrict movement?’ 

‘It’s more show piece than anything - underneath will be more interlocking pieces for flexibility,’ explains Cheung. ‘All reinforced for protection. I discussed it with the Shaolin Rogue team as well.’ Xiang had laughed at the design while Zhu thought it was ridiculously gaudy and perfect, then they discussed the pros and cons of adjusting the drift suit this way and that. It had been helpful, their experience and stories sliding down Cheung’s spine like a good drink, increasing his own excitement and anticipation. 

Thus, they build - crafting together a Jaeger with specifications that no one has seen before. Increasing her capabilities for her three pilots, transforming her from a machine that they have all seen before into a MK IV, the first of her kind, the one that will take them far, further and further to the ends of the ocean. 

Like all Jaegers, after it’s been assembled, it is painting week. Jin swings happily from his harness with a pressurized paint can in his hand, gazing admiringly at the logo outlined in removable tape on the shoulder plate. Hu is strung just past the sternum, where a smaller dragon logo is stamped on, and Cheung occupies himself with the hanzi on the right side with his own paint can. The rest of the Jaeger has been sprayed a bright, gorgeous red that Hu had advocated for since day one. 

‘Red is lucky. You know this, I know this, the world knows this,’ he had said. 

‘Red isn’t going to be very good for disguising ourselves in the ocean, bro,’ snorted Jin. 

‘Why are we disguising ourselves? We’re here to kill it, not play hide-and-seek,’ shot back Hu, and Cheung couldn’t argue with that logic. 

With only minute details left, they work through the better part of the day, getting teasing laughter from the other maintenance crews, and Xiang leaning down from a catwalk to list all the reasons red and gold are terrible colour choices until Wei yells back - pride hurt - and Zhu is obligated to whisk his co-pilot away. Eventually, they come back with snacks, make peace, and this time Wei and Xiang take turns harassing Jin. 

Compared to the drift, the lightness in his chest is nothing, but he feels at ease, listening and humming as he works. This has been a long time coming, he knows. He’s going to enjoy it while it lasts. 

\- 

She is unveiled on a Wednesday - all the other crews peering up at her, technicians and drivers and scientists and civilians lining themselves against the catwalks, LOCCENT eerily silent while Tendo and his team peer through the wide windows into the Shatterdome. 

Wei swings from her harness, ripping the painted-over tape off the chestplate, shoulders, neck, revealing the finished product with each pass. The tape flutters downwards to the floor like makeshift, coloured streamers. Cheung closes his eyes, waits. Doesn’t want to ruin this image for himself yet. 

Beside him, Hu takes his wrist and cradles it gently between both his hands. Jin leans against his shoulder, his body vibrating. Cheung knows they’ve shut their eyes as well, waiting, anticipating. With vision cut off, Cheung can hear the distinct squeak of Wei’s harness, the ripping sound of the tape, the soft landing of it against the floor of the Shatterdome. He can smell the oil and rubber and something burnt around him - the typical atmosphere. Only the voices are hushed, murmuring - like the muffled rush of waves against the cliffside, rising in crescendo as Wei works. 

‘Ah,’ gasps someone. ‘That’s China’s Jaeger.’ 

Cheung opens his eyes and his first thought is that she is beautiful. The most gorgeous thing he has ever laid eyes on. Her form coloured a sleek red and gold, the power hidden behind each fold and curve of metal, the intricacies threaded underneath each joint, the sound of her metal when knocked, kicked, bent, and smoothed out. 

Cheung knows her inside and out, and he loves her. Hu makes a muffled sound next to him, and Jin’s shaking intensifies. He’s crying. Jin always cries - but Cheung can’t blame him for this moment. Unveiled and beautiful, Crimson Typhoon rises over them all, proud and glorious, made from scratch with their blood, sweat, tears. 

Tendo’s voice echoes through the Shatterdome via the megaphone: ‘Alright, boys, let’s light her up! Get in your drift suits!’ 

\- 

In half an hour, they step into the Conn-Pod, getting into their practiced positions. Cheung holds his breath as the claw descends and hooks into his drift suit. Though they have practice in old Shaolin Rogues, Cheung knows this will be different - he has never known a Jaeger as intimately as this one. As thoroughly, as completely. 

This time, Dr. Lightcap’s voice filters through: ‘Initiating drift sequence. In ten, nine, eight...’ 

Cheung exhales, closes his eyes, and is swept into the ocean of memories once more. When he bursts out from underneath, he begins slowly - floating on the silence of the drift, reaching for the presence of his brothers around him. 

They press back, gentle, and hold him tight. _Ready?_ calls one. _Let’s say hi to Crimson_ replies another. 

They fall into the criss-crossed wirings of Crimson Typhoon, minds opening up to let her rush in with all her complexities and power. Outwardly, Cheung can hear the rumble of her engines, the rev of the motors as she kicks into gear, and inside it’s a vibration in his stomach, echoing each of her nuanced purrs and growls. 

Over his skin and underneath, Hu, Jin, and Crimson shift - pressing and circling Cheung, offering themselves up and digging deep into him. Crimson doesn’t have memories so much as feeling, as some vivacity and gladness to be alive. It curves, spurs Cheung’s heart to pound faster, because he knows that emotion \- has lived alongside it for so long. 

He might be crying again. It’s embarrassing, but it knocks something loose in his chest, enough that Hu and Jin are shivering and shattering in joyous explosion as well. They laugh, sob, and hold fast, bringing an arm up, stomping their leg down. 

Crimson’s engines rumble and she mirrors them flawlessly. They slide into another move. Another. They glide through a restrained set - the Shatterdome is not prepared for a fighting Jaeger in its confined space - and she is perfect. This is it - everything they’ve worked for and fought for. 

They end the set, to muffled applause and cheering in the rest of the Shatterdome. Jin crows out loud from the Conn-Pod in reciprocation, his voice cracking in between from emotion. Hu stands still, careful, and Cheung watches both from behind them. Feels like a sentinel. A big brother in all respects, and one he can finally be proud of. 

The mic connection between LOCCENT and Jaeger comes on: ‘Congratulations, Crimson Typhoon. You’ve done it.’ 

Cheung has to take a moment to clear his throat before he can reply: ‘Thank you, sir.’ 

‘No,’ and Stacker’s voice wavers - just once, just enough - ‘thank you.’ 

\- 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this fic, I genuinely hope you enjoyed it. :)


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